


The Minor Fall

by Ricechex



Series: Composing Hallelujah [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Dark, Drug Addiction, Drugged Sex, F/M, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 62,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricechex/pseuds/Ricechex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LOTS OF WARNINGS ON THIS. Alternate Universe, Dark. First part in the Composing Hallelujah trilogy.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is hailed as the world's greatest concert violinist who can't leave off the cocaine and is willing to trade sex and abuse to get it. John Watson is a failed surgeon who, after losing a high profile patient, drinks himself into a stupor and tries to kill himself - but only ends up shooting himself in the shoulder. What happens when they become roommates at Clouds House, a rehab center in beautiful Wiltshire? And what happens after they leave Clouds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes had never wanted to be a celebrity less.

Well, that probably wasn't entirely true, but he would be hard put to name a worse time in his life.

The papers had immediately latched onto the scandal. Brillaint Violinist on Drug-Crazed Bender in Sleezy Motel. Signs of abuse. Overdose. Rape. The last one was the worst, because he knew the truth. He hadn't been raped. He'd let it happen. Begged for it, even, looking at that damn bottle and needle just out of his reach.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think about it all.

"You cannot simply pretend this isn't real, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, then coughed a few times, the breathing tube in his nose tugging behind his ears as he bent forward. Sudden gasp, small cry of pain. Several broken ribs. Jaw that was still tender where it had been dislocated. His left arm - his fingering arm - was in a cast. He settled back against the pillows - two hands were there, helping him lay back.

"Why are you here?" he managed to wheeze. He was handed a cup of water with a straw in it. His nose krinkled involuntarily, and he made another small noise. Broken nose. Of course.

"As ever, I am concerned about you."

"Just go." Sherlock took a small sip of water - cold burned down his throat. He winced, remembering...

"Oh Sherlock." The voice sounded tired, and full of suffering. Sherlock reached out and a hand came immediately to take the water out of his hand.

"Please, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes again. "Please go."

"You know I won't." A hand came up to rest carefully on Sherlock's right forearm. "Mummy would never forgive me."

Sherlock said nothing, knowing that Mummy wasn't the only motivation behind Big Brother staying with him. Mycroft would never tell anyone else this, but he did care about his brother. And because he cared, he'd raced from his home in Belgravia to a shit-hole little motel just far enough from the Royal Albert Hall at a simple, single word in text from his baby brother.

[ _Help._ ]

Sherlock swallowed painfully. Not one of his finer moments.

"In thirty-three years I've never known you to ask for help." Mycroft always seemed to read Sherlock's thoughts. Sherlock often attempted to ignore him. "You scared Maestro Lestrade quite a lot, you know." Sherlock turned his head away.

Lestrade had taken a chance on him - a strange youth who'd never taken more than a handful of formal lessons in his life but could play like the violin had been made just for him, only for him. He'd given him first chair when the President of the United States had visited for one of those diplomatic sit-downs the world leaders were always having with each other. He'd had a solo. The president had cried, the first lady had sobbed, and the room had erupted in cheers after he'd finished. He'd watched it all with cold distance, smiling only because he knew it was protocol, was expected.

He wished he could remember how to smile because he wanted to. He was sure he'd known how, once...

"I think you should know..." Sherlock turned back as his brother paused. Mycroft was decisive, direct when speaking, and had never paused mid-sentence without there being something truly awful he didn't want to share at the end of the sentence. "...there are... pictures." Sherlock sighed, softly, carefully.

"Of course there are." There always were.

"Not of the scene, Sherlock. I made sure of that."

"Then of what?" Sherlock listened to his brother's breathing for thirteen seconds.

"Of you here, in the hospital." Sherlock's eyes snapped wide open, and he stared at Mycroft.

"What?"

Mycroft had the grace to look mildly ashamed. "I'm sorry. I thought I had things firmly in hand."

"Who - of course, that nurse, the one I hadn't seen before. I thought something was off..."

"You can hardly be blamed for not realizing sooner, under the circumstances." Sherlock tried not to think about what his brother was really saying, because he knew that no matter how hard he tried or how fast his mind worked, it would never measure up to Mycroft's unattainable perfection.

"Demands?"

"None. They've likely gone to the press already."

"Wonderful." Sherlock's voice caught a bit. He and Mycroft agreed silently that they would ignore it, and carry on as though nothing had happened.

"You should have come sooner." Mycroft was looking down - his umbrella was settled across his knees, fingers playing over the wooden handle. Red Oak, polished from insessant use as a walking stick. Sherlock suddenly could not recall his brother ever being without that blasted umbrella.

"I didn't want to come to you  _this_  time." He was being childish and he knew it, and he couldn't be bothered to care in the slightest. When you're in a hospital bed after spending several days fighting to live only to see your life and reputation tarnished beyond recognition, worrying about your big brother's feelings was not something that mattered.

"I will of course do what I can." Mycroft ignored Sherlock's last comment, as he so often did. "But there will be consequences, Sherlock."

"There always are." Sherlock looked at his brother again. He knew he was wearing his heart on his sleeve, or in his eyes, and right then all he wanted was to hear someone - anyone - tell him it would be alright. "What happens next?"

Mycroft regarded him coolly. "Next, you check into Clouds House. And you don't set foot off their grounds until they say you're ready." Sherlock glared. "And if I hear of one instance - just one instance - of you relapsing at all, or even  _attempting_  to relapse, I'll have you home and under Mummy's supervision before you can blink." Sherlock's glare retreated quickly. He loved his mother. But he knew she would be ruthless when needed to keep him clean and sober.

"When do I leave?"


	2. John

"Christ, I never thought I'd be in this situation."

"Shut-up, John." A young woman with springy red curls and an upturned nose glared at the road ahead of her. Next to her, a man a few years older than her stared at her, looking almost hurt by those words.

"What's crawled up your arse, then, Harry?" The young woman called Harry glared in his direction but said nothing. "Oh wait, let me guess. Mom and Dad love me more. That where we're going with this conversation?" He ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair. "I really thought we'd gotten past all that."

"How could we?" She was almost shouting at him, but he didn't shrink back, didn't let on that she was bothering him. Hatred was hard, but the anger - that he could manage between them. There had always been anger. Resentment.

"We're adults, Harry." He looked out the window for several moments before continuing. "We should be able to let these things go. Mom and Dad never loved me more."

"Right. I spend most of my life trailing around in your shadow, wishing I could be just as amazing as Big Brother Johnny, until I realize that I'll never be you, never be anything resembling successful-"

"I work at a general hospital mostly doing liposuctions and removing apendices! And the one time they give me something more-" He stops. Takes a deep breath and continues to stare out the window. Harry says nothing for almost three minutes.

"It wasn't your fault, John." John looks at his sister. He doesn't smile, but she's the first person to say that to him and sound like she meant it.

"Thank you."

"Shut-up." He smirks, and she smirks, and they both know it doesn't really mean anything because in a few minutes they'll be back to fighting.

"We getting close?" John looks at the map in his lap. "I can't find anything on here."

"Here." Harry hands him her phone. "I've already plugged it into the GPS. Just bring up the map on there and it'll tell you." John is silent for a minute, staring at the phone. "What?" Harry looks at him, confused.

"I just... I didn't realize you still had..." He flips the phone over to see the inscription.

"Don't make a big deal about it." Her voice was low, menacing. John glances at her and nodded, his fingers moving over the screen as he brought up the GPS.

"Looks like we're only about another twenty or so minutes out." He tries to keep his voice neutral. She nods and says nothing. He looks at her again, and suddenly instead of the girl who tagged along unwelcomed and unwanted so often in his life, he saw a young woman going through a lot more than he had really considered before.

"Harry, I'm sorry." Her lips pursed, but she doesn't shout at him or call him names or tell him to drop the subject. She just drives on.

Seventeen minutes later (Harry had stepped on the gas a bit harder after their last conversation) Harry was pulling into the long, winding driveway of Clouds House. John looked up at the house - it was stately, and the grounds were sprawling, and all he could think was that he wanted to go back home and curl up in his bottle of whiskey.

They pulled up in front of the house, and a young doctor came down the stairs to greet them.

"Hello, you must be Dr. Watson."

"John's fine, thanks." John shook the man's hand. He was a couple of inches taller than John, but younger, eager. "You must be Dr. Anderson?"

"Yes, we spoke on the phone. I'm glad you came to us." John only smiled, tight-lipped. Dr. Anderson turned to Harry. "And you must be Harry." They shook hands. "And may I say you are without a doubt the prettiest Harry I've ever met." His smile was wide, and Harry grinned back at him.

"Take good care of him?" She nodded at John. Dr. Anderson nodded.

"Of course. I'll give you both a moment." He walked back up the stairs and stood by the door pulling out a phone and dashing off a quick text. John looked at Harry, stepping in to hug her. He was surprised by how tightly her arms wound around him, and by the fact that she seemed to be crying softly against his shoulder.

"Hey, it's alright." His voice was soft and reassuring, and he only wished he could believe it. "Time will fly and before you know it we'll be right back at each others' throats." She laughed, then pulled back and planted a small kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Get better." She took a deep breath. "And... maybe talk to Mom and Dad. About me." He looked down at her and nodded solemnly.

"Of course. You know I've been trying." She nodded and gave him one more hug. Then she pulled away, walking briskly towards the car again. John put his hand in his pocket, his eyes widening. "Oy, Harry!" She looked back at him, curious. He pulled his hand out. In it he held her phone. She shook her head.

"Keep it. I'll get a new one. It was time for me to do that anyways. So... keep in touch, will you?"

Then she smiled, and got into the car, and drove away without looking back, her yellow convertible standing out brilliantly against the serene greenery surrounding the house. John watched her pause as a large, black SUV pulled into the drive, ambling past her slowly.

"John?" He turned to see Dr. Anderson and two orderlies - one of which was holding his suitcase. "We're all set." John nodded and turned back once more. The convertible was gone, and all there was was a large SUV kicking up a soft cloud of dust as it crept ever closer. John turned away and followed Dr. Anderson inside.


	3. Sherlock

"They've just received The Duchess of Cambridge as a patron." Sherlock stared out the window, ignoring Mycroft. He didn't care who's patronage the place had. He simply wanted to get out as fast as possible.

"Wonderful."

"You would do well to show a bit more respect, Sherlock."

"Then I'll curtsy next time."

"Sarcasm, how droll." Sherlock rolled his eyes. At least in rehab, he'd be free of Mycroft's presence most of the time. "Visitation is every Sunday." Sherlock looked over at his brother this time.

"I won't request your presence."

"Nor shall I force you to."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Mycroft was up to something. Normally he pushed his way into Sherlock's life, regardless of the kicking and screaming on Sherlock's part. Mycroft sighed, put upon.

"You are here to ensure your continued survival, Sherlock. So that you can find ways to stop your... indiscretions." Sherlock smirked. Whoring himself to someone he had trusted in exchange for drugs was something he believed most people would consider more than an indiscretion. He looked at his brother to see a rather disapproving glare.

"Give Mummy my regards." He stepped out of the backseat before the car had fully stopped. A young woman in a doctor's coat came down to meet him.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm-"

"Dr. Donovan. Married, three children. Ambidextrous but your left hand is dominant. Glasses are for show, so you're not used to being taken seriously, yet you wear a dress in what is, quite frankly, an alarming shade of pink and wonder why your colleagues think of you as just another girlish coed. I'll show myself in, shall I?"

Dr. Donovan just stared after him, her mouth hanging open as he strode through the front doors.

"May I just apologize for the state of my little brother." She turned, seeing Mycroft standing by the car. The day was sunny, but he leaned on an umbrella, a small smile on his lips. "He is... difficult."

Dr. Donovan smiled. "I'm sure we'll get along fine, after he's had time to adjust." Mycroft's smile grew wider and somehow less friendly.

"Yes, of course."

Two orderlies hurried down the stairs, nodding at Mycroft and opening the back of the SUV. Each grabbed a large suitcase and hauled them back inside the house.

"Good day, Doctor." Mycroft slid back into the SUV's back seat, closing the door just before the vehicle began moving again.

Sherlock watched from just inside the doors. Part of him was thrilled at finally being free of his brother. And part of him was sad, and longing for the freedom to drive out those gates and back into the world.

"Mr. Holmes?" The voice was softer this time, tentative. He turned and stared down at Dr. Donovan.

"Yes?" His voice was deep but still a little raw. He swallowed, trying not to wince.

"If you'll just... follow me..." She turned and began walking. Sherlock rolled his eyes again but did as she asked. He may do everything he could to irritate his brother, but he also knew that Mycroft's threats were not to be taken lightly.

They walked through the large open lobby-like area, down a large open hallway, into a large open room. There were several people there - therapist, nutritionist, one of the two orderlies from before, specialized counselor, and another doctor - male - he had seen as the car had been driving up to the house.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm Dr. Anderson." His hand came out and Sherlock stared at it for a moment before bringing his eyes back up to the doctor's face.

"Does your wife know you're sleeping with your colleague, Dr. Donovan here?" Dr. Anderson' hand dropped back to his side. He stared at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock's gaze never wavered.

"I can assure you that nothing-"

"Your deodorant."

"What?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course... I'm wearing it..."

"So's Dr. Donovan." His eyes flicked over - she was blushing deeply and staring at the ground.

"She may have borrowed her husband's-"

"No, they've seperated." He was still watching her out of the corner of his eyes. "He moved out, most likely because he found out about her infidelities. Husband moves out, he won't leave anything there - won't want any excuse for her to call him and have him come over. No, she used yours, which indicates your wife is not home right now - perhaps out of town, visiting relatives or friends." Sherlock's eyes darted back to Dr. Anderson, but he said nothing more.

They were saved from the awkward silence that had fallen when there was a knock at the door, and the second orderly stepped in, followed by a man in plain khakis, a button-up shirt. He walked with a slight limp, but no cane, as though he were trying not to limp at all. Sherlock considered him for a moment.

"Mr. Holmes." Dr. Anderson smiled again, but it wasn't a friendly smile - this was his professional smile, the one he put in place so that he could do his job. "This is Dr. John Watson. John, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes." John limped over, eyebrows peaked.

"Sherlock Holmes, the violinist?" They shook hands, and Sherlock nodded. John smiled. It was genuine, and real, and Sherlock felt himself squirming slightly, almost pained by how easy it seemed to come. "I heard you play three years ago, at King's Place. You were amazing. Absolutely fantastic." Sherlock felt his lips twitch. Could he really be smiling?

"You thought so?" He kept his voice quiet, soft. It wouldn't do to fall all over himself right now.

"Of course!" John's smile was bright and broad and Sherlock thought he might be able to drown in this praise.

"Thank you." John nodded at him.

"Well, now that we've exchanged pleasantries." Dr. Anderson looked between the two of them. "You'll be sharing a room. You're both here for the same reason, but from different addiction backgrounds. That's all we'll say on the matter - what you share between yourselves is entirely up to you. But we do encourage you to talk about these things with each other - often, talking to someone who doesn't share the same prediliction helps in the recovery." Dr. Anderson walked back to the desk and picked up several sheets of paper, which he distributed between the two. "These are the lists of alternative therapies and activities you are welcome to join. Start slowly - don't throw yourself into too many activities. Diversions are fine, but you still need to find time for yourself." He stepped aside. "This is your base support team." Introductions were made, though Sherlock was fairly certain he wouldn't actually need to remember any of their names. He nodded politely and said nothing to each other them in turn.

And finally introductions were finished, and the orderlies were escorting Sherlock and John back to their room. Sherlock wasn't sure what to think of everything right now, but he thought that maybe this wouldn't be quite so bad, with John around.


	4. John

The room was much larger than John had thought it would be, though he had to admit that he really hadn't known what to expect. He'd known his parents had connections he couldn't quite begin to fathom, but when his father had stuffed the brochure into his hand at the hospital, he knew there had been some string-pulling. Everything before the room had looked opulent and extravagant - he'd felt more than a little intimidated by it all.

The shared bedroom was far more intimate but no less lovely and spacious. Two beds, each with a bedside table on one side and a small dresser on the other, two small desks. One0 television set, tucked into a little alcove in the room. There was a stereo system, and a DVD player, and not a lot in the way of furnishings otherwise. A large bathroom was tucked in the back of the room, kitty-corner from the door to the hallway. Grand windows encompassing almost the entire rear wall had curtains flung wide, all of them opened a crack to bring in some fresh air. If it weren't for the orderlies and doctors and having a roommate, John might have been able to believe he was simply on holiday.

"So why the heart?" John turned, looking at his roommate. He was an odd sort of man - dark curls with eyes John couldn't exactly name a shade for. Tall, lanky, but underneath that designer suit John could sense something strong, powerful. A fighter. The evidence was still there on his face, fading away from the ugly purple and black it had to have been a week ago. If John hadn't seen all of his face, he might have thought it was a very mild case of jaundice.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock nodded at his left shoulder. "Why the heart? Why not put the gun in your mouth?" John's mouth opened - he tried to find the words that would explain it. He closed his mouth again and looked away for a minute.

"I sat there, thinking about it, all I could hear was my mother's voice in my head.  _John Hamish Watson, don't you dare leave your brain all over that wall for me to come clean up!_  And so I thought, 'Fuck you then. Heart it is.' And... well, obviously that didn't work out so well." He looked at Sherlock, his face blank. Sherlock watched him for a moment - a bird trying to figure out if this worm he saw was worth eating. John couldn't take it anymore. He laughed. Sherlock chuckled along, and before they knew it the both of them were sitting on one bed, laughing next to each other.

"So what about you, then?" John looked at his curious roommate. "What was all the..." He didn't finish the sentence - Sherlock tensed next to him. Gaze on his shoes. Hands twisted in his lap. "Sorry." John backpedaled. "I shouldn't.. I just... You're an amazing musician."

Sherlock looked up at that. Eyes wide, like he hadn't expected the compliment.

"Thank you."

"And I just figured... if anyone had a reason to live..." Sherlock looked away again. One deep breath in through his nose, out again.

"I have... impulse control problems. Boredom sets in when I don't have much to do, and I found a way to cure it." He looks back at John. Thin-lipped smile. "The truth is, I'd have given anything... to stop being bored." John nodded. Sherlock held his gaze for one more moment before standing up and striding to the other bed. His suitcases were beside it. He hauled them up, unzipping them, and set about unpacking. John wanted to say something - wanted to ask so many questions he wasn't sure he'd be able to remember them all - but the way Sherlock moved told him this conversation was over, for the moment. He turned and began unpacking his own clothes. Several old jumpers his sister had packed, probably just to spite him. A few plain t-shirts and pajama pants. Robe. At least five pairs of jeans. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally found his underwear and socks - he wouldn't have put it past Harry to be childish enough to conveniently forget those crucial items.

When he finished packing the clothes into the dresser, he turned and saw Sherlock had a laptop out at his desk, and was typing away. He hadn't thought about that - but a place like this would of course offer wifi to it's... patients? Clients? He wasn't entirely sure what they were considered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone his sister had given him. He frowned. It would be useless in a day or so, without a charger, and that was if he only used it as needed for telling the time or something.

 _Blip_. He started as the phone made a noise - new text. He opened it up. The number was not one he recognized.

[ _Power cord's in the front pocket of your suitcase - I figure by now you're probably wondering about it. Planned ahead for you. Hate to say it but I miss you already. -Harry_ ] John smiled at the message.

[ _Miss you too, somehow. Thanks. It'll be nice to have some outside connection. -John_ ]

He set about finding the power cord - it was stuffed into the front pocket, just as Harry had said, along with several pamphlets about addiction and depression. John shoved those back into his bag before going over to the small table nightstand. He looked under the small drawer and saw an outlet. Perfect.

He set the phone down on the table while it was recharging, and walked over to the little alcove where the TV was housed. It was a nice TV, mounted on the wall at just the right angle when one sat on the window-seat. He wondered how they were ever supposed to watch anything without sitting on top of each other. A small breeze blew in, bringing the scent of flowers, freshly mown grass, and new mulch.

The place may be ungodly in price, but they did a damn good job of making it worth it.

 _Blip_. He looked back over and saw Sherlock holding his phone, reading the message.

"Hey!" He got up and rushed over, limping lightly along the way. Sherlock looked up at him, surprised.

"What?"

John glared. "Really? You're reading my text messages, and you can't figure out what I might be upset about?"

Sherlock frowned. "I wasn't reading  _your_  messages, I borrowed your phone to send a text, and the reply came back. That's all." John looked at him confused.

"Where's your phone, then?"

"In my jacket." John looked at Sherlock's bed. His jacket lay on top of it, looking for all the world like the only guest at a dinner party.

"And you couldn't be bothered to use your own phone why?"

"Yours was closer." John's mouth twisted at that. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, counting to ten. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was still watching him.

"What?" It was John's turn to ask the question, his voice low.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd recommend German."

"German?" John frowned as Sherlock nodded again.

"Next time try counting in German. It helps calm you better by forcing you to focus on a different language." John took another deep breath and held it this time. Sherlock said nothing else.

"In the future," John began, letting the air out of his lungs slowly, shifting his weight a bit - his leg was screaming all of a sudden, "you ask before you take my things or use my phone."

Sherlock looked away. "Fine."

John smiled. That one word was a victory. John took his phone and walked back to the window.


	5. Sherlock

An hour after the incident with the phones, Sherlock had found John and himself being hustled out of their room for their first, "group therapy." Much to his dismay, John was led in a different direction once they reached the common areas.

"You'll see him again after this, dear." The nurse that was walking with him was an older lady - in her mid-fifties, if Sherlock was right (as he almost always was). Married for thirty-plus years, two children, three large dogs. She'd been a nurse her entire adult life - she carried herself the way someone used to seeing tragedy would. Like she was here to help while she could, but once she couldn't, she would go about her life, moving on to the next hopeless case.

Sherlock wondered if she saw tragedy everywhere, or if she could look past it and see happiness in the world, still.

She led him to a large meeting room, where several other people were already standing in a group, chattering at each other as though this were just another day at the office. They looked up when he walked in and smiled, friendly but curious.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!" Sherlock looked around the group to see the specialist he'd been introduced to earlier smiling at him. She was short, dark skinned, and had long, thick waves of ebony hair. Her smile was bright, her hands were soft when she shook his, and Sherlock tried not to show how uncomfortable he was with such open acceptance on a stranger's face. Adoring fans didn't care what you were going through, as long as you made them smile, made them happy, made them glad they were there to see you perform. You smiled mechanically and signed a few autographs. And then they stopped caring.

"Dr... Parrish, am I right?"

"Amelia," she corrected him. "May I call you Sherlock?" He nodded once, and her smile brightened.

"Everyone, I'd like to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's new-"

"Wait, Sherlock Holmes, as in,  _the_  Sherlock Holmes?" He looked over to see a young girl who couldn't have been more than twenty-five or so staring at him. Mousey-brown hair, unassuming features. Clothes that were far too loose on her frame. Drugs, leading into anorexia then. Fingertips still had the remnants of powder on them, but it couldn't be drugs - rubber gloves then. Doctor? No, she'd never be able to convince anyone that she knew what healthy looked like. Police? No, a criminal would only have to shove her and she'd shatter. Something else then...

"Which other Sherlock Holmes  _might_ I be?" He stared her down. She looked away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "And just how long ago did you lose your ability to perform pathology tests?" Her eyes widened.

"Wh-what? I don't..."

"Powder stains on your fingertips - rubber gloves regularly used, but you're not a doctor, and you're not a police officer. Not enough confidence to be a nurse, but pathology would suit you - lonely room, just you and a specimen, no one to tell you you're too thin or not pretty enough. So tell me, how long ago?"

She looked away again and the group stared at him like he was a monster. Inside his head he smiled - a real smile that reached from his toes to his hair and made him feel a little human.  _Odd, that I should feel most human when the worls thinks me a demon._ But his face remained motionless as he stared this girl down. Finally she looked back up at him. Her eyes shimmered with unfallen tears.

"Six months. I worked in the morgue at St. Bart's." The rest of the room let out a breath.

"My god-"

"That was-"

"-but how-"

"Alright, alright." Amelia raised her hands, gesturing for calm and quiet. "I'm sure that, after our session, you can ask Sherlock here all about how he... did... that." Amelia gestured to the seats spread out in a circle just behind the group. "Let's get started, then."

Sherlock sat in the circle. He said very little throughout the session. He didn't want to talk about why he'd done what he'd done, or what the drugs had done to him, or what he'd done just to get a hold of them. He kept his gaze averted as often as possible, left hand ticking off a score of notes. He'd had to write this down - it could be beautiful, if he let it be. He knew what beautiful was. He might not have much use for beauty in most aspects of his life, but he could still appreciate it.

When Amelia finally said they were done, Sherlock was the first out of his chair, out the door, and out to the lobby. He found a seat with a perfect view of all the hallways leading away from it, and pulled a small Moleskine and pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He started scribbling furiously along the staves, dotting notes along the lines with furious speed, making warning noises anytime he noticed someone from the group therapy come close to him.

A moment later he felt something nudge his foot where it sat on the floor. He looked up, the glare he had ready shifting quickly when he saw John standing there. His face was blank - no anger or frustration from earlier leaking into it now. But he didn't look entirely happy either.

"John."

"Sherlock." John looked around. Sherlock realized he should say something.

"I... I'm sorry. Please forgive me." John's head whipped back around and he stared at Sherlock like he'd never seen him before in his life.

"What?"

"I believe that was an apology." Sherlock looked at him with a small smile. "I may have overstepped the boundaries earlier. With your phone."

John nodded, slowly, contemplating. "Alright then." Sherlock got to look shocked this time.

"Just like that?" He couldn't help himself - he'd never understand so many of the interactions, the motivations and lack of motivations.

"Just like that." John smiled, wide and bright and real, and Sherlock thought he might be able to learn them, if it let him understand this curious man better. "So they say we have some free time until dinner. Thought maybe... we should talk. Get to know each other better." Sherlock finally lowered the notebook and pen, snapping them together and shoving them back into his pocket.

"Excellent idea. How would you propose we go about that?"

John laughed. "I was thinking, we could go for a walk outside, find a bench or two, sit down. Then we talk. Sounds and words and all."

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "I'm well aware of the mechanics of  _talking_ , John."

"I've noticed." Sherlock decided to ignore that comment.

"I'd like to go back to our room - I've left my shades in there. You'll want yours too."

"Oh, uh." John shrugged. Sherlock looked at him strangely.

"You haven't any shades?"

"No, didn't... think about them."

"I've got several, you can borrow some. I'm sure there will be something that suits you."

"No, no, I... I couldn't..."

"You can and will." Sherlock took off towards the hallway leading to their room. He walked purposefully, never once forgetting which way to turn. He opened their door and walked over to his night stand. Inside the small drawer were four pairs of sunglasses in varying styles, and any one of them worth more than John made in half a year. Sherlock picked them all up, selecting one for himself and then glancing at the others before plucking one set and holding them out for John.

"Here." John took them gingerly and slipped them on. Sherlock looked at him and nodded once, as though that settled that.

"Thank you, I'll.. I'll see if Harry can bring me some when she visits."

"No. Those are yours now." Sherlock pushed past John, hoping that he wouldn't argue. He strode down the hallway, back towards the lobby and the doors leading outside. Several moments later, he heard footsteps rushing as best they could towards him.

"Sherlock, wait!" He turned to see John trying to run while limping worse than before.  _Interesting. Psychosomatic, to be certain. How best to cure him of it, though - that's the challenge..._  John huffed a bit when he caught up, frowning at Sherlock's smirk. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing at all. Shall we?" And Sherlock turned, stalking outside, not waiting to see if John would follow.

He already knew the answer to that.


	6. John

The walk around the grounds had been nice. The air was clean, the sun was bright, and the breeze was perfect. Sherlock had droned on about his fascination with tobacco ash ("You really can tell precisely what  _type_  of tobacco was being smoked simply by observing the ash under a microscope, or running simple tests using basic chemist supplies, John. I've done quite a bit of research on the subject..."). John had smiled and nodded, and wondered how they were getting to know each other by him listening to his roommate drone on about pipe tobacco versus the kind found in cheap cigarettes, but he decided it didn't really matter, because he was actually feeling good right then, and nothing would take this moment away from him.

Dinner was a simple affair. There were many round wooden tables set throughout a large dining hall, each with seating enough for six people. Sherlock and John found a table that had three other people at it already - Molly Hooper, who giggled slightly when Sherlock sat next to her, and two gentlemen who introduced themselves as Jeremy Griffin and Roger Halls. John sat at Sherlock's right, feeling out of place - he knew no one, really, except Sherlock, and even  _he_  was a bit of an enigma still.

To start, there was a lovely salad, with fresh-baked croutons and home-made vinaigrette. John could not believe that a salad could taste so wonderful. He tucked in, surprising himself when it was gone shortly thereafter. He looked over to see both Sherlock and Molly poking theirs around the plate. Sherlock would take a bite here and there, but John never saw the fork reach Molly's mouth.

Once the salads were done and cleared away, there was baked Chicken Kiev, with a small side of garlic mash and steamed vegetables, and John could not think of a time he'd ever eaten anything so sublime. _These nutritionists deserve every damn pence they get._ The food was amazing, the table was quiet, and he could almost think that he might one day be happy again.

There was some conversation at the table, mostly from Jeremy and Roger. Molly stared at Sherlock as though lovestruck, Sherlock ignored everything he could as a rule, and John felt like maybe he should have sat somewhere else where he might have had more to say, though no one complained that he was too quiet. When dinner finally concluded, Sherlock was up and out of his seat as fast as he could. John stammered a few soft apologies to their dinner companions and took off after him.

"Sherlock?" He glanced around the open lobby area before starting down the main hallway. "Sherlock!" He frowned, wondering what had happened to make his roommate so unnerved.

He decided to go back to his room. When he walked in, he found said roommate sprawled on his bed, facedown, a pillow over his head.

"What... are you doing?" John walked over and yanked the pillow out of Sherlock's hands.

"That girl, Molly." Sherlock's answer was muffled y the mattress, but John was fairly certain he'd heard correctly.

"What about her? Taken a fancy to her, have you?" Sherlock turned and glared at John, who frowned at him.

"Quite the opposite, I assure you. She seems to have an obsession. Trails me around at every opportunity-"

"You got here this morning, Sherlock, how many opportunities has she really had?"

"You didn't notice then? Of course not. Why would you."

"What are you talking about?" John tossed the pillow onto his own bed as Sherlock groaned into the mattress, then swung up to a sitting position. John hesitated, but finally sat next to him. Sherlock's eyebrow arched but he said nothing - it was not a distasteful look. It was curious, as though he wasn't accustomed to people sitting near him when they had a choice to sit anywhere else. John wondered if most people chose to sit away from him. It must have been a very lonely feeling.

"Our walk around the grounds this afternoon. She was there - every time. Every time we passed a wall, or a tree, or anything at all, she was nearby. Hovering like a plague about to descend." Sherlock huffed out a breath. "She knew me - the moment I walked in, I saw it, she knew me. She's a  _fan_." He looked away, nose wrinkling as though the word itself smelled rotten.

"Well God forbid a concert violinist has anyone appreciate his work."

"You misinterpret. There are several types of fans. There's the ones who simply appreciate my work - the ones who go to concerts, buy albums, hear and see and feel the beauty of the music. They're really more  _admirers_  than  _fans_. But a fan - a true fanatic - can be broken into two basic groups."

"Oh yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Type A - catch me before I kill again." John stared at him for a moment before the realization hit.

"Jesus...  _Jesus_... I remember that. The cab driver. The young men... I forgot all about... Oh, Christ..."

Sherlock looked away. "He said he had nothing left to lose. When the police took him into custody, he was still screaming that he'd find me, one day. That he'd complete his  _glorious work_." The sound of Sherlock's voice forcing those last two words out was almost painful. John could see that the deaths haunted him - five young men who looked enough like him were brutalized and killed, all over Britain. And always in whatever city Sherlock had been performing in, that same night.

"So... what's Type B?"

Sherlock gave a mirthless laugh. "My bedroom's just a taxi ride away." John watched Sherlock as he said this. He wanted to ask if Sherlock had ever taken any of the Type B fans up on their offers. He looked lost, and lonely. "No."

"What?" John was startled by the sudden coldness in that one word. "I didn't..."

"You were thinking it loud enough. No, I never took them up on the offer. No, I was never tempted to." Sherlock looked over at him. "All I cared about was the work. The admirers, the fans - they were just by-products."

"What about friends?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "What friends?"

John gave him a pointed look. " _Your_  friends. I mean, you.. you have got friends, right?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking away. "You've met me, John. How many  _friends_  do you think I have?"

John almost reached out, almost grabbed Sherlock's left hand, which was perched on Sherlock's left thigh. Almost told him that everyone had friends. But Sherlock's demeanor told him that no,  _most_  people have friends.

"You've got one."

Sherlock's head whipped around fast. He stared at John, who schooled his face into that blank-doctor stare, the one he used when he had to deliver bad news, the one he used to detach himself from the situation. Sherlock's mouth opened, then closed. Finally, he gave one small, curt nod. John smiled.


	7. Sherlock

John was a restless sleeper.

Sherlock was laying in his bed, fingers laced across his chest, legs crossed at the ankle. Not far from him, John slept, mumbling in his sleep and tossing and turning. Sherlock sighed as he listened to John say something else in tones to low to understand. He stood up, pacing over to the windows. They were pulled closed now but there was one with its shade still raised. Sherlock looked out over the grounds. Calm, quiet, peaceful.  _Dull_. Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what he wanted, aside from something to do. Quiet and calm had never worked out well for him. It was what had drawn him to Irene, to Jim, to the cocaine.

Sherlock closed his eyes. If he thought about it, he could almost feel Irene - her arm linked in his as they attended functions, her hand slipped around his waist. He'd put his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. Place the occasional small peck at her temple. She'd smile and he'd smile and everyone had known that it was true love. The promising musician and the daughter of the owner of three concert halls. They were striking together, him in his black tux, her in her white formal dress, her auburn hair pulled up and his dark curls falling free.

He took in a deep breath as he remembered more. He wasn't entirely sure what love was, really. The chemistry of it was simple enough, but the practical application of said chemistry was not something he would say he had any real experience with. Irene had never loved him, and he had never loved her, and they had both been content with that. At first, at least...

He took a shuddering breath. The danger of this woman, the threat of violence, the promise of pain - boredom had set in, and she had found her distractions. He hated that he missed it at all. But he did, sometimes. Sometimes when life had been quiet, and calm, and just so  _frightfully dull_  he'd long for anything - anything at all, that gave him something to  _feel_.

"Sherlock?" He turned quickly, eyes wide, mouth opening ever so slightly. John was standing about three feet away, hands raised in front of him placatingly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Did I wake you?" Sherlock found himself...  _concerned_. He wasn't generally concerned about others. Irene, Jim -  _first chair second_  Jim and his  _escapes_... they were distractions, dangerous and beautiful and decidedly unhealthy. But John... John was different, he was  _human_  in Sherlock's world. It was a concept Sherlock was neither familiar nor comfortable with. John smiled sleepily.

"No, I... I tend to sleep poorly, most nights. Did I..." John looked away.

"No."

John looked up again. "What?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "You didn't wake me. I couldn't sleep. I too sleep poorly." John nodded.

"What's your excuse then?"

Sherlock looked back out the windows. "I never stop thinking."

"What's that mean?" John has moved up to stand next to Sherlock now, close enough that their shoulders brushed a bit. Sherlock smiled.

"My mind is like a freight train, hurtling along. I can't stop it, can't slow it down. There are a thousand melodies both written and unwritten playing over and over within it. It never stops, it never sleeps, it never rests. As such, I rarely rest." He looks over at John. "And you?"

"PTSD." Sherlock looks surprised for a moment before looking John over for a moment.

"You're an  _army_ doctor."

"I was. Then... there was an attack. I was one of two survivors." John's eyes are staring at something far away. "They slaughtered several of us. Because we were medics. Seven medics at the time, and I was one of two that survived."

"That must have been... difficult."

John gave a small snort. "You could say that." He lifted his shirt slightly - in the moonlight, a long, jagged scar gleamed paler than the rest of him. It ran from side to side. "They opened me up - split me right across. Not deep enough to kill me immediately - they wanted us to suffer. They thought I was dead, I thought I was dead. Had to pack and dress the wound myself before backup got there. A week later I woke up in a hospital back home. I don't even remember..." He took a deep breath. "When I heard... well, nothing helps, when you lose five medics and almost a couple dozen soldiers you were friends with all in one go. The sixth medic - McMath - was in far worse shape than I was. He was in the hospital for months after I'd been discharged."

"I can't imagine what that's like." John looked over at Sherlock. Sherlock could be wrong, but he almost thought he saw... compassion? Or was it just that John was sad and he was trying not to show it?

"I wouldn't wish that sort of thing on anyone. So I hope - for your sake - that you never have to try and imagine it." John's gaze was back out the windows now. "It was hard, transitioning from military to civilian life."

"Belonging to neither, unable to fit just right." Sherlock could feel John's gaze move back to him now, could feel the intensity of his thoughts, they were so loud they were screaming at him,  _He knows, he understands, how can he possibly understand?_  "Having a family in government... you never quite feel like you fit anywhere - can't agree with the politicians, can't disagree with them. Too fine a line to walk. It's what made me get serious about the music."

"Why?"

Sherlock smiled as he turned away from the window. "My parents were both involved with the government, though my brother Mycroft has a much larger hand in it than they ever did. Growing up, my future was decided from the moment Mycroft put in his resume. I too would join the ranks of the elite, running the country, making decisions that others couldn't make. Making my parents proud. My father got me work experience between A-levels and Uni. I hated every second of it. Got myself, 'let go,' when I asked the MP's wife how she felt about her husband's many affairs with his staff." John stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter.

"You're not serious, Sherlock!"

"Of course I am."

John's laughter continued. "My god, you are... interesting, I think that's a safe word to use."

Sherlock smiled in return.


	8. John

"Why were there seven of you?"

John looked up from his newspaper and mostly empty breakfast plate. "Sorry?"

Sherlock looked at him, a cup of coffee held in both hands. Steam rose off of it in front of his face, and John couldn't help but be transfixed for a moment by the striking image of Sherlock's eyes, which were still a color John could not accurately name, and the steam that wisped in front of them.

"You said there were seven of you. Medics."

"Right."

"Why? Aren't there normally no more than two medics per squad?"

Realization hit John, and he nodded, folding away his paper. There wasn't anything in it he was terribly interested in anyway.

"We got a call. Radio signal, heavy losses, send help. Red alert, all squads. We volunteered, racing out ahead of backup. Medics, we kept out gear in a near constant state of readiness - these weren't unusual calls. Have to be ready at a moment's notice. So, those of us not on patrol at the time and not on any other assignments geared up and raced out."

Sherlock watched him for a moment longer. "Ambush." It wasn't a question, but John answered it like it was.

"Yes. We knew better - knew not to go running out before we have more support, but..."

"You were all medics, and therefore sworn to help. Sworn to ease the suffering of your compatriots."

"Exactly." John didn't look away, didn't flinch back from the scrutiny his roommate was giving him. Finally satisfied, Sherlock nodded. One side of John's mouth quirked, and he picked up his paper again, flipping to a new page.

"Anything of interest?"

John's eyes glanced over an article that was, in fact, very interesting to him, but instead said, "No."

"Liar."

"How-"

"Your voice rises half an octave when you're lying - change in timbre is a common signal that you're being lied to. What's in the paper?" John frowned but did not ask how Sherlock could possibly know the timbre of his voice already. Instead, he folded the paper so that the article was displayed and passed it over to Sherlock.

"Looks like someone's got the idea that you're... uh..."

Sherlock looked up from the article, face blank. "That I'm what?"

John's mouth twisted to the side as he grasped at what to say. "Um, that... you're gay."

Sherlock continued to stare at him as though he didn't understand. "And?"

" _And_? They're trying to out you in  _The Telegraph_  and you... you don't care?"

"Why should I?" Sherlock frowned.

"So... you are then? Gay, I mean? Which... is fine-"

"I know it's fine."

"Good." John nodded at him. "Good. So..."

"Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't, it's... fine, either way-"

"Then let's not worry about it."

John pulled his lower lip between his teeth, breathing in through his nose and nodding slowly. "OK. Then... it's all fine." Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, nodding slowly before turning his attention back to the paper and scanning the article. He passed it back to John, who took it carefully, still confused about the conversation they'd just had.

He scooped up the last few bites of his eggs and chewed slowly, even though they were cold now. He didn't care. Anything was better than trying to figure this man out, but he  _wanted_  to, he wanted to know what made Sherlock tick, because in thirty-five years of living he'd never met anyone who worked like Sherlock did.

Once breakfast was done, the two walked out of the dining hall to see Drs. Anderson and Donovan standing in the hallway, waiting for them.

"Gentlemen." Anderson was looking at them both, his doctor-smile in place, hands in his coat pockets. "We do hope that your first day here was comfortable."

"Very." John smiled at them both. "Thank you."

"Glad to hear it. We have a few things to attend to this morning with regards to visitation for you both. If you'll come with me, John." Anderson held out his hand to signal the way.

"I'll be assisting you in this, Sherlock." Dr. Donovan smiled at him, but he looked to John, expression a bit confused and maybe... uncertain?

"I'll meet you back at the room?" John asked. Sherlock stared at him for a moment before nodding. He turned and strode off with Donovan, glancing back only once.

"Shall we?" John turned to see Anderson smiling still. John nodded and began walking down the hallway, his leg feeling more and more strained the farther he got from his roommate. "How are the both of you adjusting?"

"Well so far, I think. It's still... new. New place, new routine, lots to get used to."

"Well, if you ever... need to make a request, we would of course consider it very carefully."

"Request?" They had reached Anderson's office now. There was a small but tidy desk with a laptop and several journals on it. Calendar, pens, everything John would have thought. A photo of a woman with long blonde hair standing next to Anderson, both of them smiling, arms around each other.  _Must be his wife..._

"Well." Dr. Anderson closed his door and sat at the desk as John took a seat in front of it. "Mr. Holmes has a... reputation. As someone who is difficult to get along with."

John's eyebrows rose. "Does he?"

Anderson nodded. He leaned back in his chair, right ankle on his left knee, fingers spread but steepled in front of him. "Yes, he does. I don't generally advocate changing roommates, but... I wanted to let you know that if you should ever feel that you need it, it would be considered very carefully." John watched Anderson for a moment.

"You don't like him, do you?"

Anderson smiled. It was decidedly unfriendly. "My personal feelings on patients and colleagues are not the point. I just wanted to let you know - you have options."

"So what am I doing here? In your office, that is?" John smiled back. He knew it never reached his eyes. Anderson regarded him a moment before nodding slowly.

"We're here to discuss your approved visitors. You're allowed to place up to five people on your list." Anderson produced a piece of paper - it held regulations and permissions and all sorts of things John knew too well. "We'll need their name, phone number, and relationship to you. Friends are fine, just make sure you note that. I'll give you a few moments."

"Don't bother, I know who to put on here." John started writing without a second thought. In the first space he wrote  _Harry Watson_. He pulled out his newly acquired mobile and checked the number on it. Next to that he wrote  _Sister_. The next name was  _Mike Stamford_. This number he knew by heart. Next to it he put  _Friend._  Then he signed, and passed the sheet back to Anderson, who looked puzzled.

"You... have three more open slots."

"And no one to fill them."

Anderson nodded slowly. "Not even your parents?"

John shook his head. "They... well, I wouldn't want them to come see me here right now. Maybe later... I am allowed to change this, yes?"

"Of course." Anderson smiled at him. "My door will always be open to you, should you need anything. Remember - this is not a solitary journey." John nodded and stood, walking out hurriedly.


	9. Sherlock

Sherlock walked into the room he shared with John to see his roommate just stepping out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. He was wearing flannel pajama pants and a white ribbed tank top, dressing gown gaping open.

"Oh, I saved you some hot water." Sherlock looked John up and down and nodded. John's eyebrows quirked. "Everything alright?"

"Fine." Sherlock answered immediately, putting a small smile in place - a meaningless gesture he told himself. Just following social protocol. John watched him closely. Did he see through it all, see what was bothering Sherlock, the things Sherlock wanted to share but couldn't quite say, couldn't quite admit to?  _Meaningless indeed - I'd swear he could see into every corner of my being with that look._

"So, got your visitor list sorted, then?"

Sherlock nodded and sat down at his small desk, opening his laptop. "You?"

"Yep."  _Interesting. Clipped tone. Unhappy? Why?_  Sherlock typed in his password and the screen blanked out for a second. A few more keystrokes and he was in his email. Nothing of real importance, just a message from Mycroft asking if he would be welcomed this Sunday or if he should wait a bit longer. Sherlock frowned and told him he didn't care. There was also a message from Lestrade, telling him if there was anything he could do to let him know. Sherlock rolled his eyes and closed the browser.

"Who was it?" He turned to look at John, who was pulling out a pair of jeans and a simple button up shirt.

"What?"

"Who was it that you wanted to put on the list but didn't, or who you put on without wanting to?"

John was quiet for a moment. "My parents. They... well, they don't..."

"They won't come see you." Not a question - a fact. "They stuck you in this place and refused to visit."

John nodded. "My father shoved the pamphlet into my hand and told me I was a disgrace. Said he didn't want to see me or talk to me until I was through rehab. My mother never said anything. I haven't seen her since the first morning in the hospital, after I woke up from surgery and they were there. She stared at me... like I was some kind of freak show. Like she'd never seen me before in her life. And..." John stopped, looking away. Two deep breaths.  _This is hard for him, being away and outcast._ "She told me... that she couldn't believe I had let The Makeover Queen die on my table."

Sherlock frowned. "Who?"

John smiled bitterly. "Connie Prince?" Sherlock only stared at him. John shook his head. "She had a makeover program, supposed to help you look your best regardless of age, weight, income... Well, she came in for a routine lipo. Said she chose my group because if her fans knew the  _truth_  about this, she'd be ruined, and keeping things confidential was much easier when you're in a small, crappy generic surgery than when you go to the biggest and the best. I was assigned the surgery. Ten minutes in, she goes into cardiac arrest." John looked at his jeans. "We couldn't get her... she just... she was gone." John laughed slightly, but in a way that Sherlock would never have believed was humorous. "My own  _mother_ , told me I was worthless as I lay in my own hospital bed after an attempt at suicide, because I let her favorite crap-telly personality die on my table. Like I hadn't tried..."

John turned away, his voice breaking on the last word. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and he felt confused and uncomfortable. Was he supposed to go comfort John? How would he do that? He wasn't good at any of this. He could memorize the most complex pieces of music ever created, could transpose chords back and forth and up and down the scale all day long without so much as a second's notice, could compose music that moved people to the brink and brought them back again. But he could not for the life of him figure out what he was supposed to do when his friend - the word still felt odd, weighty and stiff and unused but ready to be used, to be useful - when his friend was standing there, trying not to cry. He stood up and walked over to John.

His left hand reached out slowly, finally falling onto John's right shoulder, squeezing once, firm and supportive but not too hard he hoped. John looked over at him, eyes a little red but mostly dry now, then down at Sherlock's hand. Sherlock thought for a moment that John was angry, unhappy with the contact, until John's left hand came up and clasped over his own. Electricity seemed to dance through their hands, and Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Your mother isn't... she's..."He took another deep breath, steadying himself and focusing his thoughts. "She's  _wrong_ , John." Sherlock put force and meaning behind the word. John closed his eyes.

"Thank you." His voice was so low, Sherlock almost missed it. "Thank you, Sherlock." Sherlock nodded.

"You're welcome."

John's hand fell back after another moment, and Sherlock took that as his cue to let go as well. "I should go shower."

John nodded. "I'll just get dressed, probably watch some telly until they come to take us away again. I'll give you your privacy when you're out."

Sherlock nodded and walked into the bathroom. There were several unused towels stacked neatly in the small linen closet, and he grabbed one, hanging it up next to the bath. He turned the water as high as he could, stripping down and stepping in. The heat felt good and painful and unbearable and familiar.

This new feeling inside of him - compassion, maybe, or caring, concern, whatever it was - was terrifying, and he wondered - not for the first time - if he would ever be able to comprehend emotions properly and completely.


	10. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ***This is the same note that is being posted on my other 2 chaptered Sherlock Fics, so if you read more than one of my stories, you can just skip over it next time. :D***
> 
> Oh. My. GAWD. YOU GUUUUUUUYS. Seriously, I am humbled and grateful and completely amazed by the response I've received from you, dear readers. I wish I could send you all tea and cookies and hugs (to mend all the heartbreak/agony/anxiety I've caused, it seems!), so let's imagine I did. :) Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you.
> 
> Also, I believe that my posting schedule is going to every Monday from now on. While I do have quite a bit written in each story, I don't have them edited, which is the slower part of it all. Add in a 5-year-old and my husband being out to sea at the moment, and I've got a full plate. So bear with me, but I promise, I shall try to make it all worth it in the end. :)

The rest of the week passed easily enough. Sherlock and John shared every meal, though dinner always seemed to be a group affair. Sherlock continued to say little, while John began to get involved in the conversations. They would walk around the grounds together in their free time, often not talking about anything in particular, or John would switch on the telly while Sherlock used his laptop, enjoying the easy, quiet companionship. Group and one-on-one therapies continued at their normal pace, and John found that while he enjoyed being able to get things off his chest, he was soon finding it harder and harder to talk to anyone other than Sherlock, which was strange when he realized exactly what he was thinking.

Sherlock may be odd and entirely unlike anyone else he'd ever met, but Sherlock  _understood_  things that others never seemed to. Sherlock would hear John say something, and from the smallest word or tiniest inflection, he'd know what had John bothered. He never forced nor pried things out of John the way the doctors and therapists would, needling him until he finally said blatantly what his thoughts were. They all claimed that he had to be able to say the words to fully accept things, but Sherlock... Sherlock seemed to believe that John  _did_  accept these things. Sherlock treated him differently - not like some addict who just needed to admit his problem, but as a man who knew his problems and was dealing in his own way.

Saturday was a free day for them all - many of the patients there were going outside to soak up some of the rare sunlight that was coming down. Several of them asked John if he would be joining them for some football.

"Sure, I'll just go get Sherlock and we'll change." The group looked at him like he'd grown a second head. He frowned. "What?"

"Well... he's kind of..."

"Rude."

"Weird."

"He'll probably spend the whole time telling us why the rules are stupid."

John looked at them like they'd all just slapped him across the face. "You're seriously going to tell me he isn't welcome? He's my roommate!"

"So?"

John looked over at one of the men in the group, staring him down. This was the army side of him coming out, the man who'd been able to stand and stare down an oncoming enemy, gun pointed and finger on the trigger. "So he's my friend. And that matters to me." The man had the grace to look sorry. "Tell you what. Either I can go invite Sherlock along, and if he chooses not to come, fine. Or I can tell you all to get stuffed."

The group looked around for a moment before one of them said, "If he comes along, just make him keep quiet as much as possible." John nodded, and turned to go back to his room.

When he walked in, Sherlock was sitting on the window seat, a book in his hand, one leg tucked up in front of him, his arm resting against it while his other leg was stretched out. The window was wide open and the breeze ruffled Sherlock's dark curls, but his eyes never left the book. He was in his typical dress shirt and slacks, shoes on even though he was in his room. John felt himself smiling while he watched him.

"Yes?"

John shook himself and noticed that Sherlock was watching him now, his eyes the only things that had moved. John stepped into the room a bit more.

"Some of us are going to go play some football. Would you... like to join us?"

Sherlock's eyes held John's for a few moments. "No." His eyes slid back to his book and he continued reading. John just watched him for a moment before nodding and striding to his dresser, pulling out some sweatpants and a t-shirt. He changed in the bathroom, hurrying back outside without looking back at his roommate.

There was a good number of them gathered, and John found himself enjoying the physical activity, the chance to expend some energy like any other bloke. There was no point system, no determined ending, just a group that wanted to play until they decided to stop.

During their second break of the afternoon, John looked over to see Sherlock standing off in the distance, watching them. He murmured that he'd be right back to George, who was acting as the team captain, and George waved him off. He jogged over to Sherlock, who had his hands behind his back and his normal coat on.

"Change your mind?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. I simply... observed."

John grinned. "Oh yeah? And what did you observe?"

"That no matter how much the world progresses, physical displays of prowess will always be evident."

John laughed, and Sherlock stared at him a moment before joining him. "So. What are you really doing out here then?"

Sherlock reached into a pocket and pulled out an unopened bottle of water. "Thought you might be thirsty."

John nodded, taking the bottle and twisting the cap off, the satisfying  _craaack_  making him thirstier. He chugged nearly half of the bottle in one gulp. "So, just going to stand there all day and  _observe_?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I merely came to make sure you were adequately hydrated." Sherlock gave him a small smile. "I'll be back to my book now."

"Hang on."

Sherlock stopped mid-turn. "Problem?"

John looked at him. "You came out here to bring me water? Really?"

Sherlock just gave him a blank stare. "Was that inappropriate? Should I not have done so?"

John shook his head. "It was just... unexpected. But not unappreciated." Sherlock stayed where he was for a moment longer, then nodded and turned away, walking back towards the house. John smiled and jogged back to the game.


	11. Sherlock

The sun was rising. Sherlock sat on the window seat watching it, the same book from the day before propped in his hand. He was still barely sleeping, but each time he seemed to get just a few extra minutes, and he wasn't certain it was good thing when he could not ascertain the reason behind the change. Normally his mind was working so fast, so hard, that sleep was all but impossible, comfort unachievable.

He looked over at John, who  _was_ still sleeping. He'd been mumbling again, but it had stopped about an hour ago. He hadn't stirred when Sherlock had gotten up.

The light on the ground turned brighter and brighter, and Sherlock sighed. It was beautiful. He wondered how people couldn't see these things, couldn't see that which was right in front of and all around them. Little things like a sunrise - beautiful and powerful and amazing.

Sherlock stepped into the bathroom to shower. The water was scalding, but he preferred this, wanted this, wanted the pain because without the pain he could not appreciate the beauty. It was what so many did not understand - he hadn't merely started with cocaine in order to escape boredom, though that had been a large part of it. He'd done it because it had hurt, in a way, it had made him see things that he would never have seen without it, and it made him appreciate the beautiful things in life all the more.

He rinsed the shampoo from his hair, letting the curls fall straight and long down his neck. If he went much longer without a haircut, he'd be able to pull the hair back into a ponytail. He grimaced at the thought, and quickly finished.

He got dressed without waking John, then went to sit back by the window, and pulled out his book.

Thirty-seven minutes later, John sat bolt-upright with a gasp. Before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was across the room, standing beside John's bed.

"Are you well, John?" He could not miss the note of desperation in his voice, though he hoped John would. John looked over at him, eyes wide for a moment and mouth hanging open, before he nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm... I'm good." He brought his hands up and ran them over his face then through his hair. "What time is it?"

"Nearly half seven. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked the sleep out of his eyes a few times, frowning up at Sherlock. "I haven't had any coffee, you'll have to explain that one."

"You keep having these dreams. Logic would say they are of where you were... ambushed. Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John nodded slowly. "Oh. Afghanistan. Surprised you haven't figured that out."

"I didn't have any data on it, you never mention it when you sleep and I could find nothing on the web that said where you and McMath had been invalided home from."

"Wait... you listen to me when I sleep?"

Sherlock turned around and strode back to the window seat. "It helps to pass the time." He picked up his book and sat back down, refusing to admit that he was even remotely embarrassed. He studiously read the same page three times before he realized that John had not yet gotten out of bed. He peeked over the top of his book to see John staring at him. "What?"

John smiled and shook his head. "Nothing, Sherlock. Just... just you. You are a constant surprise."

Sherlock said nothing and returned to his book, turning the page. He heard John get up and go into the bathroom. Heard the shower, smelled John's soap. In a few moments, John re-emerged, showered and looking far more awake. Once he was dressed, the both of them headed towards the dining hall.

"Alright, today  _is_ Sunday, isn't it?"

Sherlock looked over at John, nodding. "Yes."

"Oh good. So, got visitors coming today?" John sounded far too pleasant, but Sherlock wasn't sure what to say about that.

"Possibly."

John nodded but said nothing else as they sat down at their usual table. This morning John only had a couple slices of toast with jam and butter, which made Sherlock crinkle his nose at the sight of John with jam stuck to the side of his face. John only smiled wider and left it there. Sherlock's breakfast was a muffin with butter only.

"How can you eat that? It's so plain."

Sherlock frowned. "It's better than having...  _that_  all over." He gestured at the jam that was still stuck to the side of John's face, on his left cheek just out of reach of his tongue. "Do  _something_  about it, won't you?"

John quirked an eyebrow at him. "Why? It's not bothering  _me._ "

"Oh, for god's sake." Sherlock reached out fast and flicked his finger along John's cheek, wiping the jam off of it, finger moving unconsciously towards his mouth before he stopped, eyes widening in surprise. He stared at his finger for a moment, trying to figure out what precisely he was supposed to do. John held out a napkin, his smile smug. Sherlock plucked it from his fingers without a word, wiping at his finger hastily. John kept smiling.

"Thank you, John, that was-"

"Shut-up." John was almost laughing at him. "Just, shut-up, Sherlock." Sherlock huffed, but found he couldn't actually be angry. The whole situation was just too absurd.

"My brother, Mycroft." John looked at him for a moment. "That's who might come to see me. Lestrade has a rehearsal today, so he will be unavailable."

"No one else?" John was shocked, but Sherlock could not fathom why. After all, Sherlock had admitted to John that he didn't have friends... "No, I don't know, parents? Cousins? Anyone?"

Sherlock shook his head. "My father died when I was much younger. Mycroft is my only sibling. Not much of an extended family." John nodded. "And you?"

"Harry, my sister."

"No one else?" Sherlock turned John's own words around on him, but there was no malice in it, no accusation, nothing but curiosity.

John shrugged. "My friend Mike's busy today too, but his excuse is that he's scheduled to be on-call at the surgery all day." Sherlock nodded.

"And you and your sister, there's some... tension?"

John snorted. "That's mild. Though I'd have to say, the same could be said for you and your brother."

Sherlock frowned. "How would you-"

"Takes one to know one - I don't have to be a genius to see it, the way you asked the question about how me and Harry get on. You and - Mycroft, yes? - you don't see eye-to-eye much."

Sherlock looked at John like he had suddenly shed his skin and was a brand new person. "Correct." He sat back, arms crossed, assessing John. "Good, John, really good. I'm... impressed."

"Well now I can die happy, having impressed the great Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock laughed, and John joined in, and Sherlock thought that if this moment never ended, he would not complain one bit.


	12. John

"Harry!"

John was half-jogging over to his sister, who stood up from the patio chair and hugged him tightly. "John, I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's damn good to see you. How's your leg? I can't believe you were just running!"

John squeezed her once then pulled away, gesturing for her to sit down as he took the seat across from her. "Doing well. I was playing football yesterday, even. How are you? How are Mum and Dad?"

Harry shrugged, twirling one of her fingers in her hair. "They're about the same. Won't talk about you, won't so much as say your name. They keep acting like you don't exist, honestly."

John looked away. He'd been expecting this, but it still hurt like hell to hear it. "So how are  _you_?"

Harry smiled, but it never reached her eyes. "I'm hanging in there. Been sober for two days now." John gave her a sad smile.

"Harry..."

"Don't, John, just don't. Oh!" She reached over to her bag and pulled out a laptop and power cord. "You asked for this?"

"Yes!" He took them from her excitedly. "Can't exactly send Mum and Dad anything without this. Well, I could use the computers here, but they're ancient, even to  _me_." Harry laughed for a moment, then looked away again.

"I don't know if they'll read anything you send them."

"Won't know if I don't try."

She nodded, reaching out and grasping John's hand. "I really thought, once you'd left..."

"I know."

"I thought they'd listen. I thought they'd at least try to miss you."

John squeezed her hand. "Don't apologize for them, Harry. It's not your fault." She nodded.

"So, tell me what it's like here?"

John smiled brightly. "It's actually really amazing. The food alone is worth the admission here. And most everyone's rather friendly." He looked up and saw Sherlock walking by, coat blowing out behind him as a man on one of the benches out on the grounds stood up, leaning on an umbrella.  _That must be Mycroft..._

"Earth to Watson!" He looked back and saw Harry giggling at him. "Where were you just now?"

"Oh, I... that's my roommate, the one who just walked by in the large coat." Harry turned and looked at Sherlock.

"He's cute."

"Since when do you take an interest in blokes?"

"I don't have to be interested to appreciate the view." She turned back and winked at him. "Besides, with those cheekbones?" She grinned and he groaned.

"Harriett Jane, you stop that! I do not ever want to hear those things from my sister!" John shook his head, his gaze going out to the bench. Sherlock was sitting at one end, and the man who must be Mycroft was at the other, as though they were afraid to get too close to each other.

"So what's he in here for?"

"Drugs - cocaine, he said."

Harry's eyebrows perked. "Wow, that's..."

John nodded. "Yeah."

"What's his name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." Harry stared at him for a moment before slapping his shoulder. "Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"You're rooming with Sherlock Holmes -  _Sherlock fucking Holmes_  - and you never thought to tell me?"

"It never came up, I'm sorry!"

"Never... John Hamish, there were  _plenty_  of opportunities to bring it up!"

"OK, fine, I'm sorry, my roommate is Sherlock Holmes, the violinist I didn't know you'd even  _heard of_ , and maybe I didn't really think it my place to tell anyone he was here, since I don't really know who knows what."

Harry pulled back for a moment, her mouth opening and closing a few times. John just stared at her. "You're right. I'm sorry."

John nodded. "Now, how about we talk about anything other than my roommate?"

The next three hours passed quickly - John showed Harry his room (which Sherlock, mercifully, was not in at the time) and put his laptop on his bed. Then he showed her around the building a little bit, and then back out onto the grounds. They walked arm in arm, talking and laughing easier than they had in years. John would have been sad about this if he had not been spending the whole time being so very happy that they were able to be open and honest right then.

After the walk around the grounds, Harry looked at her watch and told him she had to go - she had work at four, and it would be a bit of a drive back. He nodded and hugged her, kissing her cheek and telling her he hoped she would be back next week. She told him that as soon as she knew her schedule she'd let him know.

And he watched her get into that bright yellow convertible and drive off, and this time he didn't feel so sad. He couldn't quite understand the feeling until he turned around and saw Sherlock standing in the lobby, hands in his pockets, watching him. He walked over and grinned.

"Good day?"

Sherlock shrugged. "As good as can be when my brother is involved. Though, he did... bring me something."

John stared hard at Sherlock. "Not..."

Sherlock gave him a put-upon stare. "No. Come, I'll show you."

John followed him back to their room. When he walked in, on Sherlock's bed was a violin case.

"Is that-"

"It's my favorite practice violin."

John looked at him, surprised. "How many violins do you have?"

"Three. Two for practice, and one that costs more than my brother's house in Belgravia - so it only gets taken out for concerts."

"My god." John was staring at him, trying to imagine a violin that would cost more than a home in one of the richest neighborhoods in London. "Why... why do you even use it then?"

"Because it is beautiful, and it makes beautiful music when I play." Sherlock opened the case on his bed, fingers stroking reverently over the polished wood inside. " _This_  violin belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to me when I first showed an... aptitude. It was far too big for me, of course, but once I grew into it, it became my favorite, no matter what other ones were pushed at me, trying to entice me into using them. This one has always been the one I play when I compose, and when I want to feel..." Sherlock stopped, closing his eyes. John was staring at him, not sure what he was seeing. He'd known Sherlock a week, and he'd never poured so much emotion and  _love_  into anything he said. But this...

"I look forward to hearing you play." John felt stupid saying it, but Sherlock looked at him and smiled, and it was almost entirely genuine, almost happy, as he pulled the instrument out of the case. He set it down on his bed, pulling the bow and a small case of rosin out.

"Then I shall play for you." And Sherlock checked his violin, rosined his bow, and played.


	13. Sherlock

Sherlock was not at all surprised to see John leaning on the wall next to his group therapy room the moment he opened the door. He grabbed John's arm, pulling him down the hall without sparing a second glance at the man or a second thought about what he was doing. They reached the doors that led outside, and Sherlock sighed in relief. John grinned as he pulled out the pair of sunglasses Sherlock had given him, slipping them into place.

"I swear John, I think I may be going mad."

"I'd say you went there a long time ago."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised over the top of his own pair of sunglasses. "I suppose that may be true." Sherlock took a deep breath. "They said we're supposed to start picking...  _activities_."

"Yeah, wanted to know what you were thinking about."

Sherlock shrugged. "They have Tai Chi."

John laughed. "With your manic energy, I could not see you doing that."

"Why not? Intense focus and discipline, strength, timing. I believe it would be the best outlet they offer. I always enjoyed the lessons my mother had me take." Sherlock looked over at John now, John who had his hands clasped behind his back like he was standing at ease in front of his commanding officer instead of strolling the grounds of rehab with his roommate. "What were you considering, then?"

John shrugged this time. "Table tennis?"

Sherlock sneered. "Boring."

"I don't see me doing Tai Chi, Sherlock."

"And I won't do... Table tennis..." Sherlock's lip curled at the name, and John chuckled.

"Well then, I suppose that's just going to be something we disagree on, then."

"It would seem." Sherlock swallowed, looking over at John from the corner of his eyes. "Though, they did say... we would be allowed to go out on Saturdays, if we're... well enough. Shopping trip, I believe."

"Yeah, I heard them mention that. Why? You interested?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's tone.

"If by interested you mean desperate to get away from everything that reminds me about where I am right now, then yes."

"Even me?"

Sherlock halted, staring at John, who turned and looked at him, face passive where the sunglasses didn't cover it.

"No."

"What?"

Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat. "No. I... don't want to be away from you." He pursed his lips and wondered if that sounded too strange, for a man who had known another man, another person, for a week to feel so very secure and safe around that other person, to not want to be away from them any more than was absolutely necessary. He waited, watching John, waiting for a reaction, any reaction, so he could gauge how badly he'd misspoken. But John just gave him a friendly smile.

"Well, wait another week and see how you feel, I'm sure you'll be thoroughly irritated with me by then."

Sherlock smiled softly at him. "Incorrect, John. After one week, I'm still interested in talking to you. That is most certainly not in my normal spectrum of social interactions."

John laughed until he looked closer at Sherlock. "My god, you're  _serious_. You really get tired of people after one week?"

"Mmm, most often it's after an hour, but your wording is not entirely wrong. After a week I'm generally so sick of someone that I do my best to avoid them. In your case, however, I still seek you out." They started walking again, and Sherlock was certain he was not imagining the distance between himself and John growing shorter. John seemed to get closer with every step, though never quite touching, never crossing that line. "You have proven... interesting."

"Oh you hopeless romantic." Sherlock looked at John to see a wide grin. "Quickly, get me a couch, I'm swooning."

Sherlock sighed, though truthfully he did not mind the jokes at his expense, not when John was the one making them. "You are also insufferable."

"You say the sweetest things."

"Shut-up."

John threw his head back and laughed now, loud and long and Sherlock stared at him, stared at the way his throat was pulled taut, and suddenly his mind was in a million places it shouldn't be: Sherlock with his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him closer. Sherlock's mouth attached to John's neck, kissing and licking and sucking and John moaning softly. Sherlock's fingers running through that blond hair like he was memorizing every bump and ridge on John's head. Sherlock's mouth claiming John's, their bodies pressed together...

Sherlock stumbled slightly, and John's hand reached out immediately to grab him, steady him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?" Sherlock looked at John again, breathing hard and fast and shallow and the realization struck him that this could not happen, it could not, he would not allow it, because he could not bear to truly gain John and then lose him, and if John knew, if John ever suspected, Sherlock was certain he would.

"I'm fine." Sherlock wrenched his arm out of John's grasp. "I... I think I should like... to go lay down. Headache." He cast a quick smile at John before turning and almost jogging back to the house.  _It has to end, then. Now._

"Sherlock?"

John's voice sounded worried, almost frantic, but Sherlock did not look back, did not slow down, did not stop until he was back in their room, leaning against the door. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, willing these feelings, these emotions, to stop, to leave him. He heard those voices,  _their voices_ , telling him the same thing over and over. Irene, Jim, even Mycroft. All of them saying the same things in their own ways.  _Love is a dangerous disadvantage. Everything you care about will be broken, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage._ Sherlock shook as he slid to the floor, his face still hidden in his hands. A few gentle sobs escaped from him, but he refused to admit he was crying.

After several minutes, there was a gentle knock a the door.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised his head.  _John_. Quickly he leapt up and hopped over his bed, dashing into the bathroom just as the door opened. He started up the shower, locking the door to the bathroom to ensure his privacy. He stripped down and stepped under the water, still trembling. Finally he sank to his knees, hands curled around his torso, and allowed himself a silent cry for the man standing in their room, the man he cared about and wanted and might, one day, grow to  _love_.

The man he could never allow himself to have.


	14. John

John was sitting on his bed, rubbing at the ache in his bad leg and wishing he understood anything about what had just happened between him and his roommate when the bathroom door opened and Sherlock stepped out, fully dressed and toweling his hair.

"Sherlock are you ok?" John was up and off his bed and standing in front of his roommate. The towel dropped from his head slowly until it was sitting in front of Sherlock's chest. His face was almost blank, but John could see something there - disdain? Hatred? Something else? John stepped back slightly. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, John." His voice came out colder than John had ever heard it. "As I said, a headache. A quick stop at the clinic for paracetamol and a nice hot shower and I'm feeling right as rain." He stepped forward, giving John a pointed look until John finally backed up, hands up.

"OK. Good." John watched Sherlock as he wrapped the towel over his shoulders, standing in front of the windows and looking out at the grounds they had been walking along an hour ago. "So... I mean... " Sherlock turned back at looked at him, one eyebrow quirking.

"If there's something you wish to say, John, simply say it and be done."

John frowned. This is was not the Sherlock he'd met a week ago, the Sherlock that had just been telling him he always got tired of people but hadn't gotten tired of John. "What's wrong?"

"I told you." Sherlock pushed past him, tossing the towel into the hamper they had for linens. "Headache. Next question."

"I didn't ask how you felt, I asked  _what's wrong_? There's a difference, Sherlock."

"And what would you have me say?" Sherlock's back was towards him, hands in his pants pockets, but John could still see the contempt plastered over that perfect face.

"How about the truth? One minute we're talking and joking, and now you're treating me like some idiot who isn't worth your time." Sherlock was silent, and John took a deep breath. "So, what, you're tired of me now? Just like that? Blink, and things are different? Finally reached your limit, have you?"

"If I said yes, what then?"

John's mouth gaped open in what he believed must have been a perfect imitation of his heart right then. "I wouldn't believe you." His voice was small, and soft, and quavered more than he wanted it to.

"That would be your problem."

"Then say it to my face, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned, frowning. "What?"

"If you're  _over_  this, if you've grown tired of me, just say it right here, right now. Look me in the eyes and tell me." Sherlock's head and shoulders jerked back, almost like he's been slapped, but John stood his ground. "You can't, can you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer to John, closer, closer, until they were almost touching. He stared into John's eyes, and John hoped he saw that spark, that realization in Sherlock's eyes that said he knew what he was doing and what he would say and it wouldn't be that Sherlock had grown tired of John.

But then Sherlock opened his mouth. "Withdrawal has made me unaware of just how I've grown weary of your useless chatter and inane thoughts, but I'm seeing it clearer now. Your utter banality is taxing, and I wish you to leave me  _alone_."

John stumbled back from the raw anger and disgust burning in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock kept eye contact until John finally looked away, grabbing his mobile from where it had sat on his bed and storming out of the room. He walked until he found himself outside again, near one of the gardens. He played with the phone for a few moments, catching his breath, and swearing to himself that he was not about to burst into tears. After several more long, calming breaths, he dialed Harry.

"John?"

"You know what? Every good thing I said about my roommate yesterday - I take it all back."

"John, what are-"

"He's an arrogant sod and he can't be bothered to even try being human, it seems."

"Wait, what-"

"And I can't believe I thought he was a decent bloke.  _God_ , I really am an idiot, aren't I, Harry?"

"This isn't-"

"And the worst part, Harry,  _the worst part_  of this whole thing is that I really thought he  _might be_. I thought maybe, after hearing him talk about his life a little, I thought maybe I was his friend. Thought maybe he just  _needed a friend_." Harry was quiet for a moment, and John closed his eyes.

"So what happened, then?" Her voice was softer than John could remember it ever being, and he felt it when the sob ripped itself from his tight control.

"Can I just... can I just leave it at what I said, for now?" John pressed the fingers and thumb of his free hand against his eyes, because he was not crying, dammit. "Please, Harry, I just... I just feel so stupid and I needed a shoulder..."

"Of course, John. And, hey, maybe it's just a mood. Maybe... he'll come 'round later. Withdrawal isn't easy to manage. He may just need some time."

John sniffled. "The world should be so lucky."

They were both quiet for a moment more. "I'd come right now if I could. You know that."

John smiled. "I know, Harry. Right now... this, the phone call... it's enough. Thank you."

"Anytime. I love you, John."

"Love you too, Harry. See you Sunday?"

"Schedule's just come out, and I'm free. I'll be there." John could hear the smile in her voice, and he smiled in return.

"Bye."

He hung up without waiting for her to say anything else. Then he sat down on the small stone bench he'd been standing in front of, put his face in his hands, and continued not crying.


	15. Sherlock

The moment John had stormed out and nearly slammed the door, Sherlock had collapsed to his knees, watching his friend - no,  _his John_ , because that was what he really was now - storm off, hating him, believing the worst of him. And why shouldn't he? Sherlock had given him no reason to think that he hadn't meant every one of those words. He fell forward, onto his hands now, bent over like a dog getting sick, trying to breath around the feeling of his own self-loathing.

_I've sent him away. He'll never forgive me now. We'll exist in a state of close-proximity but we'll never truly interact again, and when this is all over and he's released from here, he'll go on to a better life than I could ever give him. Isn't this what you do when you care?_

Sherlock was taking great, almost sobbing breaths, shaking everywhere. Usually this was about the time when he'd grab his phone, and hit three buttons. He'd wait five minutes and get a reply text with a location. He'd be there, and Jim would be there, and then, then...

Sherlock shook his head.  _No. No, never again, never... no._  He refused to go back to it, even as his body betrayed him and he could feel it,  _could feel everything_  and he wanted it, the drugs, the sex, the beatings, he didn't care, he wanted anything that would take his mind off of  _John fucking Watson_  right then, because he couldn't afford to care about anyone, not truly, not like he cared about John.

He crawled over to the side of his bed that hid him from the door, laying down and curling up almost in a fetal position. He put his head on his knees and tried to calm himself, to get a hold of himself. He closed his eyes and thought back to that last time. Jim's hands skimming his body, Jim's lips on that spot just behind his ear, Jim's fist slamming into his cheek, Jim's booted foot as it kicked him in the ribs one last time before leaving him broken and bleeding and higher than he'd ever been in his life, lying on the floor in a cheap motel. The needle that had pierced his arm lying closer than his phone, and the fight to get to the phone, to not let go of his life until he'd gotten his phone and pretended to try, pretended to care about what was happening.

Because the truth was this: Mycroft wasn't supposed to swoop in and save him. Mycroft was supposed to find his corpse.

Sherlock shook harder, remembering his words,  _his own bloody words_  as Jim had toyed with him.  _"I can't do this anymore, Jim. Just end it. Make it strong enough to kill me already."_

Jim had smiled and leaned in, that voice that had seduced Sherlock almost immediately, made him want and long before finally giving in, before it had showed him the truth of the man that used it; that voice whispered against his ear and made him shiver.  _"This will be a great game, Sherlock."_

Sherlock opened his eyes again, pushing himself slowly up to a seated position. He took in several deep breaths before he stood up, legs only a little wobbly, and he sat on his bed.

Another knock at the door made him jump, but it was only Molly this time. Molly, his  _fan_ , from group, who was coming to see if he was alright because she'd just seen John storming through the gardens, playing with his phone and looking like he was on the verge of tears.

"I just... I wanted to make sure you were OK." Her voice was quiet and uncertain and Sherlock nodded at her.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You look sad."

"I'm fine." Sherlock stood up and strode over to the door, pushing it closed in front of her. He waited until he heard her walk off a moment later, realizing he didn't want to talk or have company. When he felt he could safely leave his room without looking like an emotional wreck, he opened the door.

No one was there, though he had half-expected -  _no, hoped, hoped completely and entirely and with every bit of his person, he had hoped_  - to see John standing there, ready to call his bluff, and Sherlock would have let him, would have fallen at his feet and begged his forgiveness, his mercy, which he had never once done, no matter what he'd been through.

But John was not there, and Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat before walking down the hall. He found the small gymnasium towards the back of the house. There were a few weight machines and ellipticals, and an area with thin foam mats laid out. He waited a moment longer before storming back to his room, changing into sweat pants and a t-shirt as quickly as he could, and then dashed back to the gym. No one was in there but the door was unlocked, so he entered. He walked to the mats, sat down, put his legs out in front of him, and began to stretch.

It had been a long time since he's done any of this - Mummy had insisted on him taking lessons in all sorts of things, and one of his favorites had been Tai Chi when he was eleven, possibly because Mycroft had been so uninterested in it. He'd only done it for a year, but he could still remember a few things, and right then he needed to work off the pain.

After he felt limber and warm and ready, he closed his eyes, recalling the way his Sifu had shown him to move. His arms and legs moved slowly, all focus and power and tension and Sherlock never opened his eyes, relying on his other senses to tell him if he was no longer alone. After three turns through the same form, he took a deep breath, opening his eyes.

At the large bank of windows looking into the gym stood John, watching him. His eyes were red-rimmed and Sherlock knew he'd been crying. He felt himself start to jerk forward but stopped himself, standing straight and tall, chin held up a bit. He stared resolutely at his roommate, who said nothing through the glass and never once moved towards the door. Sherlock could not be certain how long they stayed there, staring through glass, but finally,  _finally_ , John turned away and hurried down the hall.

Sherlock forced himself to stay where he was.  _Never let it rule your head_. After about a minute, he walked across the gym, opened the door, and went back to his room.


	16. John

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock's bed was neat, tidy, and looked entirely unslept-in. He rubbed at his eyes as he looked around, the memories of the day before hitting him hard. He'd tried talking to Sherlock once the house curfew had fallen and everyone was ushered back to their rooms. Sherlock had simply ignored most everything John had said, responding only once when John had asked what it was, precisely, that he'd done in that split second to change Sherlock's mind about him. Sherlock had looked up at him from his book, sitting in his normal perch by the window, face blank.

"You're a pathetic excuse for a doctor and so dull it's nearly unbearable. I had thought perhaps you had some hidden quality, some tiny spark that made you different, but the fact is you are exactly the same waste of space that everyone else in this place is made of."

John's lips had parted slightly then, his breath catching as the words rolled out of Sherlock's mouth. John had given up trying to talk at that point, and changed into his pajamas, climbing into bed and rolling to face away from Sherlock immediately. It had taken forever but he'd finally fallen asleep, tossing and turning and probably moaning in his sleep. He remembered the nightmares when he woke up, like he always did, but now there was something new...

He showered, and brushed his teeth. Got dressed and walked down to breakfast. Sherlock wasn't there, but George and Jeremy were, and he sat with them.

"Alright there, John?" George looked at him over a bowl of cereal.

John smiled and nodded, sipping at his coffee. "Alright. You?"

George nodded. "Sherlock was here a few minutes ago, don' know where he's off to now though." Jeremy shot John an apologetic smile. "Just grabbed his coffee and the paper and he was off like a rocket. Thought he might be goin' to meet you..."

John frowned. "What?"

"Well... you two are always... ya know..."

"No... I don't. We're always what?"

"Together." George shrugged, saving Jeremy the embarrassment of the word. "We figured you two were in it."

"In it?" John looked between the two of them, stupefied.

"We figured you were a couple." Jeremy looked away, a blush spreading all over his face and neck and ears.

"I've only known him a week!" John was trying not to shout. He stared at the two men sitting at the table with him like they'd each grown a second head.

"Look, we're just sayin'." George looked at John pointedly. "You two did everything together. Hell, I bet you would have gone to each others' group and private therapies if you could have."

"We're not a couple." John looked away miserably, jaw clenched. "We're not anything. He's my roommate, that's all."

Then he downed the rest of his coffee, grabbed his paper, and stalked out of the dining hall.

Group therapy seemed to fly quickly by, and before John knew it he was racing down the hallway for a split second before remembering everything. The memories hit him like a freight engine, and he fell back against one of the walls.

"John?"

He looked over as he slid down to the floor to see Molly Hooper standing about four feet away from him, oversized sweater and comfortable but rather unfashionable pants hiding how thin she was.

"Why did he do it?" He felt about to hyperventilate. "Why?" Molly bit her lower lip and glanced around quickly before coming over and holding out a hand. John took it and let her help him up. She was thin, but she was still strong. "Why, Molly?"

"Come on - I've got some free time before table tennis."

"Me too."

They walked upstairs to a room John hadn't been in before. Molly knocked three times before opening the door. John stepped in and felt an eerie sense of familiarity mixed with surprise. This was Molly's room, and while the design was exactly the same, the room felt more personal, like it had been lived in longer. There were posters for various bands on the walls, and even several photographs of Sherlock performing in concerts taped up next to one of the beds.

"Looks like Cara's out right now. I think she said she was going on a walk."

"Cara's your roommate?"

Molly looked over and smiled. "Yeah. She's brilliant. Fantastic artist. She drew those for me." Molly pointed and John looked at a few quick but elegant sketches of Sherlock that mirrored the photos on the wall.

"She's quite good."

"Yeah, she is."

John looked around. "Did he talk to you?" His voice was softer now, his eyes back on the photographs. "Did he say... anything?" He turned around and watched Molly worrying the ends of her sleeves.

"He didn't really say anything to anyone in particular. He just..." Molly closed her eyes, an apologetic smile in place when she opened them again. "He said something about not sleeping well, bad night. Said he was going to talk to Doctor Donovan about a room transfer."

John's heart felt like it stopped, his breath stopped, everything in the world stopped right then.  _Room transfer_.

"Oh."

"But don't worry, it can take weeks sometimes, and by then, he may... he might..."

John closed his eyes, nodding slowly. "Yeah, course. By then, who knows?" He opened his eyes and smiled at Molly. "Thank you."

She nodded, and he left, trying to figure out what he was going to do, because he couldn't pinpoint why, but he was certain that if Sherlock was granted his room transfer, that would be it, that would be all there was, and he would never again get to talk to him, or walk with him, or share things like he had been sharing this last week. And he couldn't allow that.

Because for the first time he could remember, John hadn't felt entirely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Because today is extra special, you get Bonus Chapters! That's right, twice the update at no additional charge!


	17. Sherlock

Sherlock was not sure how everything was working out so well thus far, but he wasn't going to complain. Much, at least. John avoided him whenever possible, and when not possible he simply ignored Sherlock altogether. It was more painful than Sherlock would have thought it could be, but he repeated over and over that this was what was best for John, because Sherlock was not a good person, not a normal person, and he would only ever offer John pain in return, and he could not do that if there was a way to avoid it.

The week passed far too slowly, and Sherlock had to remind himself not to go running to John, not to go find John or grab John and pull him outside for a walk or even to text John, because he had John's number memorized, had stored it in his own phone. The phone felt heavier somehow, as though those digits weighed a stone at least, and he was constantly pulling it out of his pocket, looking at it, turning it over in his hands as though he could will John to text him instead, which wouldn't happen of course because John did not have his number.

He started his Tai Chi courses, which were dull and boring and very, very basic, but they were a distraction, even if they weren't a very good one. Sherlock threw his entire being into every move, every turn, everything about it, hoping it would stop his brian from screaming at his heart and vice versa.

He was allowed two classes each week, and the rest of the time he spent in the library upstairs, except when John had table tennis, which Molly had confided to being in as well, and then Sherlock would sit far enough away from the small gymnasium at just the right angle so that he could see John but John could not see him. He would watch him play, and admitted that while John was certainly not going to be winning any world class events, he was good enough that he often won the matches he was in. Sherlock sat on the floor, cross-legged, and watched the lines of John's body as they lengthened with each shot, contracted just after, and again, and again, and again. Just before the sessions ended, Sherlock hopped up and walked quickly away from the gym, back to the library, back to the books and the quiet where John would not come find him.

He would watch from the library windows as John played football with the others, or took walks with Molly. Sherlock knew John was suspicious of her motives, but Sherlock was persuasive, and Molly was eager, and it had been so easy to manipulate her into keeping tabs on John when Sherlock could not.

At dinner Friday night, Sherlock had beckoned Molly over to sit with him. She had looked back towards John, who was currently talking with George and Jeremy and Cara - Molly's roommate, who had gotten over her almost crippling shyness and was now taking meals with the rest of the general population, he'd learned today. Molly darted over to Sherlock's table and sat down quickly.

"Why am I doing this?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise at Molly's bold tone. "I rather thought it was as a favor to a friend."

"We're not friends."

He frowned at her for a moment, but her expression wasn't hostile, wasn't accusing, it was just a statement of fact. He looked back down at his dinner plate. "No. I suppose we're not." His voice was soft. "But... I do consider this important. And I hope... that you might consider it a personal favor." She nodded as she watched him.

"You miss him." Sherlock said nothing, though he did begin to stab at the steamed vegetables on his plate. "You look sad... when you think he can't see you."

"He sees me just fine. We're roommates."

"You know what I meant." Sherlock closed his eyes, biting into a rather large piece of cauliflower to avoid answering her. Because he did know. He knew that when John turned away from him, it hurt more than his last dalliance with Jim, and that had nearly  _killed_  him. He knew that when John didn't speak to him in their room, it felt like he was just below the surface, scrabbling at nothing, trying to get out of the water before his lungs burst or he drowned. And he knew that no one but Molly would have seen that in him.

"I know I don't matter."

Sherlock swallowed. "You do."

"Not like he does."

Sherlock shook his head. "No one matters like he does." It was a whisper, but Molly heard him.

"Look, I just... what I'm trying to say is that... if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all... you can have me." She blushed and stammered at him. "No! I just mean..." She licked her lips, took a breath. Sherlock watched her, watching the way her neck moved when she swallowed, and he felt nothing, no spark, no interest aside from the scientific properties and muscles required. "I mean... if there's anything you need." She looked away. "It's fine."

Sherlock watched her and felt nothing above his average interest in the way the human body worked, the way the same stimuli could cause such very different reactions in people. For instance, Molly was flustered around him - she was hopelessly in lust with him, his music, and he knew that. But John... John had genuine feelings that weren't based on Sherlock's music.

"What else could I need from you?" It came out harsher than Sherlock had really intended, but there was no taking it back now. He looked at her, stared her down.

"I... don't know. Nothing, probably..." She looked down and grabbed her plate, standing up quickly and walking back to the table with John and Cara and Jeremy and George. Sherlock watched her, watched as she sat down between Cara and John; John who was staring at him now, and Sherlock felt his breath catch at the sight of him.

Anger. Betrayal. Concern. Intrigue. Sherlock could not fathom how he was able to feel so much and out it all into his eyes without exploding into a million pieces. He gave his best arrogant look and returned to his meal.

He did not look over at the table again, until after John had left.

When he returned to the room, he found John sitting on his bed with his laptop. John turned when the door opened, but turned around just as quickly, saying nothing to Sherlock. Sherlock wished the pain in his chest would go away when John ignored him. He wished he was a better person, a person who could give John everything he deserved, but he wasn't that person, and he never would be.

"I'm sorry."

John looked up at him, confused. "Are... are you actually talking to me?" Sherlock saw it, saw the desperate hope and barely restrained joy shining through in John's eyes, and he hated himself for having to kill it.

"About the room transfer." Sherlock lied, he'd always been a good liar, had been able to learn it early on. John's face fell slightly. "They... Dr. Anderson said it may take another week or two. But... I'll be out soon." He turned away and refused to look back at John, refused to acknowledge anything more than what he'd said. If he turned now, he'd be undone, and all of this would be for nothing.

He walked into the bathroom, ignoring the small sniffle that came from behind him.


	18. John

John was walking along the sidewalk of the small town not far from Clouds House on Saturday afternoon. It was a beautiful day with lots of sunshine and just the right amount of breeze to keep it comfortable.

The bus had dropped them all off only five minutes ago, but those last five minutes had been glorious. The bus ride had been less than fifteen minutes, and John had kept his face turned to the window and refused to talk to anyone. Sherlock had sat towards the back of the bus, doing much the same on the opposite side of the aisle, and it had taken John every ounce of his not inconsiderable resolve to keep from looking back, glancing over, staring. Stepping off the bus, he'd rushed as far and as fast as he could away from Sherlock, away from everyone.

He now had his hands in his trouser pockets, sunglasses on despite their previous ownership, and a smile that he would swear was absolutely real until the day he died, no matter what anyone might have said about his eyes and how they didn't seem to feel the same.

When his cell phone beeped to signal an incoming message, it caught him off guard, wiping the smile from his face for a moment. He pulled the phone from his coat pocket, expecting it to be Harry. Instead, it was a number he did not recognize.

[ _There is an Italian cafe on the corner to your left. Do you see it?_ ]

John frowned and looked around. He saw the place -  _Rigoletto's_. Then he looked back at his phone. He was about to put it back in his pocket and simply ignore it when it beeped again.

[ _Now is not the time for games, Dr. Watson. Come into the cafe. Tell the hostess you're meeting someone. She will know what to do._ ]

John's mouth opened, one side of his upper lip curling up in a very confused expression. So he texted back.

[ _Why should I? And who are you?_ ]

He looked over at the cafe while he waited for the reply, which didn't take long. [ _The cafe, John. Now, if you please._ ]

John  _did not please_ ; his mouth closed and twisted, mistrustful and frustrated. But against his better judgment he checked both sides of the street and crossed quickly, walking up to the open door of _Rigoletto's_.

"Just one?" The hostess greeted him with a huge smile, and he found himself smiling back as he took in her tanned features, her exquisite looking brown hair that seemed to have been woven from silk and sunshine, her perfect teeth and lovely figure.

"Ah, no, I'm... meeting someone."

"Oh, yes, right this way." She grabbed a menu and beckoned, and John followed her to a small table in a back corner. There was a man he was fairly certain he'd seen before seated at the table, a delicate looking cup and saucer in front of him. He looked up and smiled at the woman.

"Thank-you, Anthea." She smiled and nodded, placing the menu in front of John's seat as the man stood up.

"I've... I've seen you before..."

"You're very keen, Dr. Watson. But then, my brother would not have taken an interest in you had you been... ordinary."

Realization hit John like a freight train in the form of an umbrella perched at the man's side. "You must be Mycroft." John held out his hand. Mycroft looked at it a moment before shaking it quickly.

"Indeed. Please, sit." Mycroft gestured to the seat across from him at the small table. John looked around before blowing out a slow breath and doing so.

"So... what can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft crossed one leg over the other, hands clasped in his lap and head cocked to one side as he studied John. "What is the nature of your relationship to Sherlock?"

John froze, looking at Mycroft like the freight train had just wrecked right in front of him. "I... don't have one. We're roommates. That's it, that's all."

"We both know you don't believe that."

"Doesn't really matter now does it?" John gave Mycroft a half-smile. "Sherlock made the terms of our,  _relationship_ , very clear."

"Ah, yes. He certainly does love to be dramatic."

"Well thank god you're above all that." John sipped his water and kept watching Mycroft. Mycroft gave John a politician's smile, and John tried to figure out why he thought it might be the most honest expression the man had. "Wait, does... Does Sherlock know you're here?" Mycroft looked down at the table but did not answer. "He doesn't, does he?"

"When one is avoiding the detection of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place." Mycroft picked up his cup and sipped at what John was now fairly certain was espresso. "I don't frequent cafes, and Sherlock believes that I would never lower myself to meeting anyone in one."

"Why are you avoiding him?"

Mycroft's phone beeps, and he picks it up. He snorts softly at the message, fires off a quick text back, then looks back up at John, his look considering. Instead of speaking right away, he reaches down to a briefcase he'd kept concealed on the other side of his chair, opens it, and pulls out a folder that he puts on the table and slides towards John. John looks at it for a moment before picking it up and opening it carefully. The folder is thick enough that John believes it would take him a while to get through everything.

He flips through a few pages. When he notices a birth record and doctor's notes he looks up. "What is this?"

"Everything my brother isn't telling you."

John's mouth drops open a bit as he looks back at the file in his hands. "What am I even supposed to do with this?"

"Many people would  _read_ it, John, that's what the words on the paper are meant for."

"I know that!" John glares up at Mycroft. "I mean, I've... I've known your brother for almost two weeks at this point. And you're handing me his entire life?"

Mycroft smiled again. "If I told you that I trusted you to do the right thing, what would you say?"

"I'd say you don't seem the kind that trusts easily."

Mycroft laughed. "Neither do you, John. And yet, could it be that you've decided to put your trust in Sherlock Holmes? Of all people?"

John felt like his head was spinning. "Who says I trust him? He won't even talk to me!"

"And yet, not once have you attempted to have a room transfer. What is that, if not trust in his ability to change?"

"Sherlock was getting the transfer." John knows it sounds feeble; a poor attempt to sound as though he wasn't secretly hoping all along that this was just a bad dream.

Mycroft tilted his head. "Surely you know that if Sherlock had wanted to be rid of you, he would be by now." John looked away, not willing to respond. "Consider this a request, then."

"What kind of request?"

"A personal one." Mycroft leaned forward. "Do not give up on him, John. He needs you."

"He doesn't  _want_ me." John regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, because they implied so many things that he couldn't think about right then, not with Sherlock ignoring him and Mycroft sitting here telling him to stick around. It was all too much.

Mycroft only continued to smile. "In time, John, you shall come to know how very wrong you are." John flushed slightly at that, and Mycroft sipped the last of his espresso before standing up. "I should expect I'll be seeing you very soon." And with that, Mycroft was gone, out of the cafe and into a car that had barely stopped and started rolling again just as soon as Mycroft's feet were both inside. John stood up, tucking the file under his arm and feeling more confused about things than he'd ever been before in his life.


	19. Sherlock

[ _What's he doing? -SH_ ]

[ _Hang on, Sherlock, I'm trying to see. -Molly_ ]

Sherlock paced outside of a small bakery, cursing the limitations of everyone but himself. Had Molly even an ounce of his abilities, she'd have more answers by now.

[ _Hurry up. -SH_ ]

[ _You know, if you're so keen to spy on him, why don't you do it yourself? -Molly_ ]

Sherlock growled at his phone's screen. [ _You know perfectly well why I can't. -SH_ ]

[ _Then stop treating me like a disobedient servant. -Molly_ ]

Right then, Sherlock would have killed his own mother for a cigarette, he was certain of it. He took three deep breaths, willing Molly to hurry up and text him back. He'd seen John hurry away from the bus, had pretended to be interested in something else entirely, and the moment he knew it was safe, he'd grabbed Molly's hand, ignored her stammering and sputtering, and followed at a discrete distance. John had stopped, pulling out his phone, and was now inside a small cafe. Sherlock was almost entirely certain this was Mycroft's doing, because the cafe was so unlike him. It would be perfect if Sherlock hadn't known his brother so well.

[ _He's sitting at a table with a man. Nice suit. And an umbrella, too. -Molly_ ]

Sherlock closed his eyes.  _Of course_. Of course Mycroft was meddling again. Mycroft couldn't help it - it was like his hair color or the shape of his ears - deeply encoded into his DNA. At least, that was Sherlock's best theory.

[ _You stay out of this, Mycroft. -SH_ ]

Sherlock doesn't wait long before the reply comes in. [ _Well done, Sherlock. I expect we'll have much to discuss tomorrow. -MH_ ]

[ _I mean it. You leave John alone. -SH_ ]

Mycroft didn't respond - his phone was probably on silent now. This would be a quick meeting then, it seemed.

[ _What are they talking about? -SH_ ]

[ _I don't know. I can't hear them. -Molly_ ]

"Dammit." Sherlock huffs and starts typing again. [ _You're going to have an awful lot to tell me, Mycroft. -SH_ ] What was taking so long? What could they possibly be discussing? It had to be Sherlock, there was no doubt of that - he was their only connection. But  _what_  about him was the mystery. [ _John is not your concern. Leave him alone. -SH_ ] Sherlock heard a car door open. He looked up just in time to see a sleek black sedan pulling away from the cafe. He dialed Mycroft's phone.

"Is this really necessary, Sherlock?"

"What did you say to him?" Sherlock's teeth were ground together, the words forcing themselves out around them. Mycroft was silent for a beat.

"I told him not to give up on you." Sherlock turned back around to see John walking away, a large folder under his arm.

"What the hell did you give him?" Sherlock swallowed, afraid of the response, yet wanting it, wanting to hear what he knew was true. Because if John had  _that_  file...

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Everything. I gave John Watson everything he would need."

"Need for what?" Sherlock's voice had lost most of it's edge, and now he sounded merely curious.

"Everything he would need to understand you. Sherlock, must you really make me spell it all out for you?"

"No." Sherlock hung up, sighing. This was both a relief and a curse. If John had  _that_  file,  _Sherlock's Life Story_ so-to-speak, then he might begin to understand, might begin to see that Sherlock was simply not good for him, not right, not normal. Of course, having that file might mean that John began to think Sherlock a monster - a depraved creature barely capable of being considered human. And John might start to hate him. Sherlock could deal with scorn from anyone  _except_  John, and he still couldn't pinpoint exactly why that was.

That was what terrified him most of all.

Molly was walking up to him now, a sad look on her face. "I'm... I'm sorry, I couldn't get close enough to hear them."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. I... know what they talked about."

"What? How?" She looked at him, confused.

"Because the man with the umbrella is my brother."

"Oh." She nodded slightly, as though this would make perfect sense, though to the best of Sherlock's knowledge she'd been preoccupied last Sunday, and had not seen Mycroft nor heard Sherlock talking about him. "So... are you and John..." Sherlock stared at her. "Are you going to talk to him?"

Sherlock looked away. "Not yet. I need to talk to Mycroft first."

"It's just... I think..."

"Molly."

"I think you need to talk to him. John, I mean. He... he cares so much about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned away and began walking. "I know." He shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked, and Molly darted forward to catch up. "Him caring is the whole problem."


	20. John

John smiled at Harry as she walked up to him, her arms going around him happily. " _John_." Her voice was sad; he just squeezed her tighter for a moment in response. "How are you?" She pulled back and looked him over. "You  _look_  well."

"I feel well." He nodded at her, leading the way through the building to the grounds at the back of the house. "I thought perhaps you might to see the gardens today?"

"That'd be fantastic!"

John smiled and held his arm out for her. She linked hers through it, and they set off.

"So really. How are you?"

"Really? I wish everyone would stop asking. I'm  _fine._ "

"No you're not. He really hurt you, didn't he?"

"Harry." John looked at her reproachfully. "I'm fine. It was... a shock. That's all. I've had time to adjust." John decided that he should not mention Mycroft or the meeting or the file he'd barely been able to glance at yet. That would only fuel her fire.

Harry watched his face, mouth twisted to the right in a perfect imitation of their father, and John gave her a big smile that didn't meet his eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"I wish you would. Seriously. We're... fine. As roommates. He actually talked to me the other day."

"What did he say?" Harry stopped walking, looking at John in surprise. "Well go on then."

John waved dismissively. "Nothing important."

"Which means?"

John frowned at her. "He just said that he was sorry the room transfer was taking so long. It was nothing."

Harry looked outraged. "He requested a transfer? Why?"

"Well probably because I'm so incredibly boring and stupid and worthless, according to him!" John realized his mistake the moment the words had started, but he couldn't stop them. Harry's eyes narrowed, and her gaze darted away from John. He looked behind him to see Sherlock and Mycroft standing near one of the benches. Mycroft had his customary umbrella, and Sherlock was scowling. Harry let out a soft sound - it was more like a growl, and John winced.

"Oh, really?"

"Harry, don't-" John threw up his hands in frustration as Harry stormed over to Sherlock and Mycroft. He took a deep breath, then began following her. "Harry, seriously!"

Harry stopped in front of Sherlock, who looked over at her dismissively. She glared. "You've got some nerve, you son of a bitch."

Sherlock's and Mycroft's expressions of surprise mixed with a faint hint of outrage were so similar John almost couldn't tell them apart as he caught up. "Harry, come on." He grabbed her arm, but she shook him off, still staring daggers at Sherlock, whom John would not look at.

"You don't even care, do you? Do you have  _any_ idea what he's going through?" She gestured at John, who closed his eyes and pursed his lips, trying to pretend he was invisible.

"Harry, please." He kept his voice low, and when he opened his eyes he caught a glimpse - just a glimpse - of Sherlock's face. He'd never seen sadness like that before.

"I can assure you, Ms. Watson-"

_WHAM._

"Harry!" John grabbed her and pulled her away from where Sherlock was now trying to sit back up, after her punch to his cheek had sent him sprawling on his backside. His left hand was clutched at his face, a look of shock fixed on her as Mycroft held out a handkerchief and offered help up. She was vibrating in John's arms, and he was having difficulty controlling her. Sherlock took the kerchief and refused the help up.

"My brother is the best damn thing that will  _ever_  happen to you, you absolute wanker!" Harry was shouting, and John jerked back sharply to pull her a bit farther from Sherlock, who was just regaining his feet, linen square pressed to his face. "My brother's the most loyal and caring friend you'd ever want! And you treat him like garbage!"

"Harry, shut-up!" John was shouting now, dragging her back slowly but surely. "Stop it!" The orderlies were rushing towards them now. "Harry, if you get me thrown out or get yourself banned, I will hate you forever!" He hissed at her, twirling her completely away from Sherlock, and spinning her to look at him.

"That  _fucking ponce_ -"

"What the  _hell_  is wrong with you?"

"With  _me_? What's wrong with  _you_?" John reeled back from her, confused. "You just  _let_ him treat you like this? Since when do you go belly up?"

"Hey!" An orderly was almost next to them now. John's teeth were clenched, lips twisted almost painfully into a scowl. The orderly was next to them now. "What's going on?"

"My sister's just... a bit overprotective. Won't happen again, I swear." John looked over, trying to smile and only managing a grimace. "Will it, Harry?"

She stared at John unhappily for a moment before shaking her head. "No, of course it won't. I lost my head."

The orderly watched them for a moment before turning to look over at Sherlock. John looked too.

Sherlock was waving off everyone. Mycroft seemed to be trying to convince him of something -  _probably of pressing charges -_ but Sherlock kept waving dismissively at him and the orderly who was trying to check his face. John could hear his protests. "Get off of me, I'm fine!"

John snorted.  _Typical, really. Get laid out by a girl, deny any help afterwards._

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we'll have to ask you to leave." Harry sighed and gave John a look to say,  _sorry_ , but nodded.

"No."

John and Harry both turned in surprise to see Sherlock standing rather close to them. The orderly looked at him.

"Sir, you're bleeding, we'll need to get you to the nurse's station."

"Don't make her leave."

John cocked his head, upper lip curling in confusion. "What?"

"Eloquently put as ever, John." Sherlock looked the orderly in the eyes. "Am I correct in my assessment of the situation being that, as Ms. Watson here has punched me, she is now being asked to leave due to my obvious desire to press formal charges against her?"

The orderly looked at Sherlock for a moment. "Yes."

"And am I also correct in the belief that if I refuse to press charges, she is then allowed to remain here, with her brother?"

The orderly nodded slowly now. "Yes. But, sir-"

"Then it's her lucky day, because I'm not pressing charges."

"Sir!" The orderly looked almost livid. "She... you...  _your face_!"

"My face will be fine with a little antibiotic cream. But my..." Sherlock paused and looked at John now. "My roommate... should be allowed to visit with his sister."

Then Sherlock turned and stalked off, hands fisted at his sides. His brother rushed to catch up, shooting John an interested and pointed look that was over in a second. The orderly shook his head and threw his hands into the air.

"Alright, but if one more thing happens - _anything at all_  - you're out of here and not welcome back." He stared at Harry, who nodded solemnly. The orderly walked away, shaking his head and muttering about fools.

"I may be a terrible person for saying this." John crossed his arms in front of himself and looked at Harry, a grin spreading slowly over his face. "But that really was a damn good punch."


	21. Sherlock

Sherlock was sitting on an exam table in the nurses' station, marveling at the small cut on his left cheek. There wasn't anything particularly exceptional about it, aside from the fact that someone had gotten the punch in without him realizing what was happening at first.

The nurse on duty rubbed an alcohol swab over the broken skin, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Are you certain you won't be pressing charges then, Sherlock?" Sherlock's mouth tightened, which brought a small reproach from the nurse. He relaxed again as she began to rub some antibiotic ointment on it carefully.

"Of course I'm sure."

"Sherlock."

"Drop it, Mycroft." Sherlock took in a long, slow breath. He had to admit he was rather impressed with Harry. The Watson siblings were an interesting pair. Sherlock smiled.

"There's nothing funny about this, Sherlock."

"Everything is funny about this, Mycroft."

"How so?"

Sherlock was quiet a moment, which gave the nurse the chance to pronounce him finished. He opened his eyes and thanked her, hopping off the exam table and striding out the door of the station. Mycroft followed.

"You haven't answered the question, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. "Well, you seem to know all." He stepped back, arms spread wide. "Have a go, then." Mycroft's disapproving expression made Sherlock smile. "No? Tut tut, brother _dear_ , you seem to be losing your touch."

"He loves you, you know." Sherlock froze, eyes widening. Mycroft's expression turned to a cheshire grin. "Oh come, come, you saw it, Sherlock. That's why you went through the charade of not wanting to be near him now. You saw that he was falling in love with you."

"He was not."

"Well, not  _anymore_." Sherlock could not stop it - his face gave everything away, betrayed him at those three stupid words. Mycroft continued on. "So what will you do about that?"

"There is nothing to be done."

"You don't believe a word of that."

"Shut. Up." Sherlock stepped closer, leaning into his brother's space, faces mere inches apart. "You know nothing about John.  _Nothing_."

"I know  _you_ , Sherlock. And having met John, I can safely believe that I know him well enough-"

" _No you don't_!" Sherlock did something very, very uncharacteristic of himself - he reached out with both hands and shoved Mycroft, shoved him hard, as hard as he could. Mycroft stumbled backwards, looking shocked and a little shaken. "John is a beacon of light I'd never dared dream of finding! John is a better man than you would ever give him credit for. John..." Sherlock was breathing hard, and he stepped back quickly, hands going to his face as he willed himself to stop,  _just stop this_ , because emotions were useless when you couldn't express them properly, and he would never be proper. his hands dropped enough that he could look at his brother.

Mycroft stared at him, dumbstruck. If he hadn't been so upset by the situation, Sherlock might have enjoyed a very rare sight. Sherlock kept his hands over his face, breathing raggedly. Two arms encircled him, and he tried to pull away for a second before leaning into the embrace in defeat.

"I can't keep doing this, Mycroft." His voice was soft, and Mycroft had to lean in even closer to hear him correctly. "These... emotions, feelings, whatever they are... it's too much."

"I see you are finding they are not as easy to turnoff as you would like, Sherlock."

"I used to be able to turn them off with a single text."

"And I wanted to throttle you each time you used that as your escape."

Sherlock let out a mirthless laugh. "Yes." He pulled away, and Mycroft dropped his arms. "Your disappointing little brother, always the screw-up, always making mistakes. If only you could have stopped it all, Mycroft."

"I wanted to save you."

Sherlock shook his head. "Can't save someone who's chosen damnation."

"Sherlock-"

"Always second best, Mycroft.  _Always_. Father favored you, Mother favored you, you were given  _everything_. And I couldn't be you. What else was there for me?"

"They would have given you  _anything_ , Sherlock." Mycroft's voice is tired, and sounds far older than it should.

Sherlock looks away, feeling tired and useless and  _lonely_ , which is not something he'd ever truly experienced. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, blowing it out again through his mouth.

"Talk about anything you want to, Mycroft." His voice was still soft, still quiet, but there was genuine menace behind it too. "Except John. Just... I want just this one thing that is only for me."

"I shall say only this, then: if you don't do something soon, he won't be  _for you_ , Sherlock. He will move on, and you will be left in the distance."

Sherlock nods. "Then I shall want him from afar."

"Sherlock."

"It's for the best."

Mycroft sighed. "Who's best?"

Sherlock looked back at him. "Everyone's." Then he strode back out to the grounds, leaving Mycroft to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a bonus chapter! Just one this time. There will be one bonus chapter next week, too. :)
> 
> Next week's post will conclude Act I of The Minor Fall, which basically means we're about halfway there! After that, Act II will start up, and it's all part of the same story, so there won't be any need to worry about what to look for next (yet!). Once Act II is done, I'll announce the title for the second "book" in this series, and let you know how soon it will start posting. (And in case you're wondering, I've already got "Book 2" roughly mapped out, and a few scenes written.)
> 
> So, TL;DR - Next week we're halfway through this one. I'm excited. :D


	22. John

John rubs his hands over his face and sighs heavily. He's less than a quarter of the way through the file Mycroft gave him, and he's had the thing for six and a half days now.

He leans back in his small desk chair, stretching his arms and his back. It hasn't helped that every set of footsteps outside his room has him scrambling to hide the file, lest Sherlock walk in and see it. John isn't entirely sure what Sherlock would do. He might just ignore it all - he's never given John any reason to believe that he cares what people know or think about him. And while he certainly doesn't go out of his way to recount his life story, John can almost imagine him being...  _relieved_... to walk in and find John holding this file.

Provided, of course, that Sherlock even knew what it was that John was looking at. Sherlock might not even know there  _was_ a file. Mycroft seemed like the kind of brother that would save everything, keep everything handy, just so he could reference it again later on, perhaps during some petty argument. So perhaps Sherlock wasn't aware there was a file ( _conceivably_ ) detailing his trials, his accomplishments, his pitfalls and downfalls and triumphs and everything that could ever have been considered important, it seemed.

John was still in the childhood portion of the file primary school, in fact. He took a deep breath and flipped to a tab marked,  _Musical Career_. This was bound to be more interesting than the science projects and report cards.

There were newspaper clippings, magazine pages, copies of contracts.  _Maybe_ not  _much more interesting, then_. John flipped a few pages in before spotting something. A police report - with Sherlock's name on it.

John read it over carefully. Domestic violence. No charges pressed. John read it again before he realized that Sherlock was the one who had called the police. He was the one reporting the abuse.  _My god_. The person he'd called to report had apparently been his fiancée, one Irene Adler. John could call up only a hazy memory of the name from some mention in the paper a few years ago. He flipped a few more pages, and there the clipping was, announcing the engagement of the Royal Philharmonic's First Chair Violin, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to Ms. Irene Adler, daughter of Mr.  & Mrs. James P. Adler, owners of Cadogan Hall. John's eyes went wide.  _He was engaged to the woman who would inherit his orchestra's home hall?_

There are footsteps outside the door, and the handle begins to turn as John is quickly closing the file and stowing it on his lap just under the desk. He doesn't turn, doesn't say anything, as he picks up his cell phone and pretends to read a text while Sherlock's footfalls enter the room. Sherlock goes to his dresser, selects a t-shirt and pajama pants, and heads straight to the bathroom. A moment later the shower turns on, and John rushes to his bed. He slides the folder carefully between the mattress and box-spring, deciding that if Sherlock's rooting around in the spot where most men would hide their porn, then he's really got some explaining to do.

John grabs his own pajamas and gets changed, slipping into bed and closing his eyes. He says nothing when the bathroom door opens again and Sherlock slips out. Says nothing at all as all the lights turn out around him. He simply lays in his bed and allows himself to drift off to the images of police reports and magazine clippings.

When he wakes up, as usual, his roommate's bed is impeccable, neat and tidy and looking as though it was never touched. John sighs and goes to the shower.

Once he's clean and dressed, he walks down to breakfast, running into Molly along the way.

"Oh, wotcher, John. How are you this morning? Sleep well?"

"Fair, I'd say. You?"

"Alright." Molly was smiling more than she normally did, and John had to admit that it was a pretty smile, if not a beautiful one. She looked so much more alive when she smiled. They arrived at breakfast and Molly picked out a small apple and grabbed a cup of tea. John grabbed toast and jam, and they walked to a table.

"Shit, forgot my-"

"Here."

John and Molly looked up to see Sherlock standing there, a coffee and a paper in his hands and an awkward, shy, small smile on his lips. He set the coffee down in front of John, turning the handle towards him. "Black, no sugar, right?" He laid the paper down next to the coffee. John nodded, shocked into silence. Sherlock's smile widened a fraction - if John hadn't watched it happen, he would never have seen the difference. Sherlock turned to Molly and nodded, then turned away and walked rather hurriedly out of the room. John sat there staring after him.

"What was that all about?"

Molly shrugged, just as confused. "Don't know. He's... he's been off. All week. Well, more off than usual, I suppose. Oh, god, I..." She sputtered an apology that John smiled and waved off.

"No, it's fine, Molly."

She smiled shyly and bit into her apple. "So. Are you going to go shopping today?"

"No, I think I'm going to stay in. I don't need anything, and..." John looked back towards the doors that Sherlock had exited through. "It was not an easy thing last week. I think I'll just stay here, relax a bit."  _And read more of that damn file while I can get more than ten minutes time at it_.

Molly nodded. "Alright. Are you sure there's nothing you need? I could pick it up for you."

John shook his head. "No, but... thank you." He looked her in the eyes. "You're too kind a person, Molly."

She blushed heavily at the compliment. "Oh, no, I... I'm really not..."

John smiled, and smeared jam on his toast, and tried to stop worrying about his bizarre roommate.


	23. Sherlock

The man waiting for Sherlock this Sunday morning is most definitely not his brother. And  _The Woman_  standing next to him, her telltale smirk in place, hip cocked out to the side - she's certainly not someone Sherlock had ever wanted to see again. He stands a good distance away from them, watching, wondering. Finally he takes a deep breath and strides towards them, He passes John, who is seated at a table with Harry and a large man that must be his friend Mike, the one who worked at the surgery with John. Sherlock fights every impulse he has, every impulse telling him to run, flee,  _save yourself_.

"What are you doing here?" He stops still several paces from them both, watching. "How did you get in?"

"When you know the right people, Sherlock." The man stepped up, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes, willing his body to stop, to not betray him as it so often wanted to. "Anything's possible."

"Stop it, Jim." Sherlock's voice was low, and shaky, but it was all he had right then. "You both need to leave."

"Now now, Sherlock, dear."  _The Woman_  walked towards him, her hips swaying seductively in a way that had never once moved Sherlock. "Don't be rude, darling."

"You. Need. To. Leave." Sherlock stared straight ahead now, words low but stronger now, more resolute.

"Do you hear that, Irene, my dear?" Jim smiled at Irene. "I don't think he's happy to see us."

"And after we came all this way, too." Irene watched Sherlock's face, smiled when she saw the flickers and flinches of memories bubbling through Sherlock's brain. "Sherlock, won't you talk to us?"

"Leave."

"Not very friendly!" Jim is almost laughing at him -  _laughing_  - and Sherlock feels himself trembling with wants and desires and knowledge, knowledge that this is wrong, this is not healthy, not good.  _But oh how I want this, for so many reasons I should never acknowledge_.

"You both need to go. Final warning." Sherlock keeps his gaze straight ahead, looking at the distant trees, wondering how long and far he'd have to run to escape this, escape Jim and Irene and the cocaine and the abuse that he  _still_ wants.

"Ooo, a warning. How brave, Sherlock." Irene steps around him, around his backside where his hands are clasped and fingers tap out a steady stream of music only he can hear. "I see you still have that nervous habit with your fingers. Can't say I usually complained about it, though. You were always so...  _eager_." She smiled cruelly. "Those fingers came in quite handy. Wouldn't you agree, Jim?"

"He always was ready and willing for anything, wasn't he?" Sherlock clenched his jaw.

"It was you, wasn't it?" His voice was soft.

"What's that?" Jim leaned in a bit, a leering smile covering his face.

"You found a way to keep my brother away. What was it?"

"Still so smart." Iren reached out a hand, stroked it along Sherlock's cheek. He forced himself to turn away rather than into it, into the soft texture and the luxurious scent and everything that made Irene so _Irene_. "Look at the poor man. He's positively cowed, isn't he?"

"Sherlock?"

The three of them turned, all surprised. John was standing not far away, and Sherlock had never been happier to see him.

"John?" Sherlock kept his voice pleasant.

"Everything alright?" John was watching them all, his eyes darting between them all quickly, gauging reactions. Sherlock could have kissed him right then.

"Fine, John." He smiled. It never reached his eyes. John watched him for a moment, nodding slowly. Sherlock could only hope John was picking up on the clues Sherlock was leaving him.  _Please John. Please save me._

John looked at Irene and Jim again. "Hi." He walked over, smiling, holding out his hand. "I don't believe we've met. John Watson. Sherlock's roommate."

Jim smiled. "Mycroft. Holmes. This is my wife-"

"Now,  _that's_ a lie."

Jim's smile fell, and he watched John like a lizard watching a bug that looked particularly tasty. "Come again?"

"Well it's just, I've met his brother before. And you're not him. And I've seen his conductor, Lestrade, before, so I know you're not him either. Now why don't you tell me the truth about who you are."

Jim's expression could have melted concrete. Sherlock watched this, fascinated and concerned and touched even, touched that John would put himself in the line of fire to help him, after everything that Sherlock had put him through the last few weeks.

"No?" John was still smiling. "Well let me guess. You both look terribly familiar. Have I seen either of you at the concerts? Usher, maybe?" John gestured at Jim, who gave him a very flat look. "Cigarette girl, I'd wager." John nodded at Irene, who's mouth dropped open in outrage. "Oh, no, wait, they don't have those anymore, do they? You must be one of the groupies. One of Sherlock's  _fans_." John did his best imitation of Sherlock's sneer on the last word, and Sherlock had to look down and bite his lower lip to keep from laughing.

"I think we'd best go." Irene grabbed Jim's arm and began pulling him away. "It was lovely to meet you, John. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other soon."

"Charmed." John waved to them as they left, his wide smile back in place. When they had disappeared around the front of the house, he let out a breath.

"John." Sherlock was staring at his roommate like he had never seen him before. "John, why... you didn't...  _why_?"

John looked at Sherlock, his smile gone. He shrugged. "Friends protect you."

"I don't have friends." Sherlock's voice sounded small and far away. He wanted John to reach out and grab his hand, tell him he had  _one_  like he had before.

But John just nodded, as if considering this. "Yeah. Wonder why."

Then he turned and walked away again, back to Mike and Harry, both looking confused, though Harry looked more unhappy than confused. Sherlock watched him go, and he could swear there was a trail of blood following John, from where he'd just ripped Sherlock's heart out.


	24. John

"Sherlock?" John opened his eyes in time to see the door to their room ease shut. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking in the low light. Sure enough, his roommate's bed was empty, blankets and coverlet pulled up neatly, as though making his bed before sneaking out after curfew made up for the transgression.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Slippers on, robe over his t-shirt and flannel pants. He quietly turned the door handle and slid the door open, looking around. He slipped out, closing the door behind him, and rushed as silently as possible down the corridor in the direction he figured Sherlock would have gone.

At the end of the hallway, he heard another door as it closed with a quite  _snict_. John looked around again, keeping low and hurrying. He leaned against the door, listening. He didn't hear voices, or any other sounds that would indicate Sherlock wasn't alone. John opened the door and was startled to see a set of stairs. He closed the door behind him and started up the stairs.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. He opened it and found himself on the rooftop of the house. The night sky was clear, the moon was bright, and the stars looked more beautiful than John could ever remember them looking before. Near the edge of the roof stood Sherlock. Hands tucked behind his back, fingers plucking at invisible strings. John walked over to him slowly.

"Sherlock?" He pitched his voice low, trying not to startled his roommate. Sherlock said nothing, just stood where he was and watched the sky.

When John was almost directly next to him, Sherlock spoke.

"I've never cared much about the stars, John." John wasn't sure where this line was leading, so he said nothing. "The skies have never held much that interested me. But out here..." Sherlock slowly spread his hands out to the side, looking like an angel about to take flight. His eyes were closed, head tilted back as though he were basking in the moon's light. John was certain there had never been a more beautiful sight than Sherlock, hair mussed, in his bedclothes, with the moon on his pale skin. "Out here, John, I'd swear I could fly." He took a small step forward.

"Sherlock." John's voice held a warning note. "Sherlock, let's step back-"

"I want to fly, John. I'm so  _bored_  here."

"Please, Sherlock."

"Like Icarus."

"Sherlock!" John reached out just as Sherlock took another step. His hand grabbed one arm, hauling his roommate back from the edge. Sherlock stumbled back, trying to catch his balance. He glared at John, confused.

"What was that for?" His couldn't hide the indignation. John stared at him in disbelief.

" _You_  were about to jump off a building!" John hissed at him. "You great, bloody git!" Sherlock looked at him as though he were being ridiculous.

"Of course I wasn't going to jump off a building."

"I was standing here, Sherlock! I bloody well  _saw_  you!  _Icarus_ , Sherlock? Really?"

Sherlock stared at him, and John had never been afraid of this man, but he was afraid of what he saw now. Desperation, deep and dark, loneliness that was eating him alive.

"John-"

"No, Sherlock, you do not get to try and tell me this was nothing."

Sherlock licked his lips, rubbing them together between his teeth for a moment. Then he stepped forward and kissed John, soft and tentative and  _scared_  and there was nothing John could do,  _nothing_ he could do except put his hands up to grasp Sherlock's arms and pull him closer. Sherlock let out a small moan into John's mouth, hands coming up to frame John's face and pull him in even closer.

They stood there, on the rooftop of Clouds House, sharing their first kiss, the moonlight gleaming along every surface it touched. When Sherlock pulled back, he stared into John's eyes, as though waiting for the rebuttal, the argument,  _we can't do this, Sherlock, I'm sorry, but..._

"That... was..."

"I'm sorry."

"I hope that you mean you're sorry you didn't do this earlier." John smiled up at him, and Sherlock's snort was enough to let John know that if his apology hadn't meant that before, it did now.

"You asked me once... if I was gay."

"Right." John rubbed at the back of his own neck. "I suppose-"

"No."

John stared at him for a moment. "No?"

"The answer is no. I'm not gay. I'm not straight. I don't... I don't think attraction should be forced into those sorts of labels. I've always considered my... preferences, to be more fluid than fixed." He stared up at the sky. "I've never been in love, John. And I'm not in love now. But I do know... that this is a very new feeling to me. And I think that I  _could_ be... one day... I've been attracted to others, but I've never...  _cared_."

John took a deep breath, realizing just how cold it was up on the rooftop, with the breeze blowing over them gently and only the moonlight to warm them.

"Let's go back inside?"

Sherlock looked over at him and nodded.

"Before we do that, does this..." Sherlock looked away. "Does this change things? Between us?"

John frowned. "Well, yes, to an extent."

"To  _what_ extent?" Sherlock turned back and stepped close again.

John shrugged. "Well... we've both admitted to an attraction-"

"You... you really  _are_  attracted, then? To me?"

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "No, I just kiss anyone who kisses me first. Of  _course_  I'm attracted to you, Sherlock. If the feeling wasn't mutual, I wouldn't have let you do that." Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Relationships are... not my forte."

"I'm seeing that."

Sherlock glared at him, but it softened back into that desperate, lonely look. "I've never cared before, John. I don't know if I'll be any good at it now. I... I'm  _afraid_."

John nodded and held out a hand for Sherlock. After a second's hesitation, Sherlock took it. John squeezed once and said, "So am I. We'll talk about in the morning then. Before breakfast."

Sherlock nodded and smiled, and for the first time he could remember clearly, he felt as though it was  _real_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin Act I
> 
> (Stay tuned - Act II starts in only 2 weeks!)
> 
> ******
> 
> Alright, Act I is finished! The Minor Fall will have a one week hiatus, and then we'll be back to see where Sherlock and John go from here. I hope you guys are just as excited as I am to see what happens next!


	25. Sherlock

Sherlock woke up to see John staring at him, face close and eyes still sleepy. Sherlock squeezed his own eyes shut for a moment, willing this to be real, willing it to not be a dream. Something soft brushed his lips, and he pushed forward, hands coming up to pull John in closer, kiss him deeper, longer, kiss him until John could never again believe him if he said he didn't want him like he had those long weeks ago.

"Good morning to you, too." John was smiling and mumbling against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock just held him and kept kissing him, because there was nothing else in the world that mattered right then when John was kissing him back.

"John." Sherlock's voice was breathy and quiet and he wasn't entirely sure why and he didn't care. "John, is this real? Or am I dreaming?"

John laughed quietly. "I was wondering the same."

Sherlock opened his eyes now and looked at John, who was still smiling at him, whose arms were still around him. Sherlock let out a soft sigh and dove back in, kissing John like it really was a dream and he might wake up at any moment, and he had to make every single second he had count. John's kisses were equally desperate, his fingers finding Sherlock's hair and tugging slightly.

"Please..."

John pulled back just enough to talk for a moment. "Mmm? What was that, Sherlock?"

"Please  _never_ again believe me should I cast you away."

John looked at him for a moment. " _Would_ you cast me away again, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pulled back a bit himself then, looking John in the eyes. "My life has taught me certain things. One of those is that I can't  _be_  a normal person. Normal people can deal with the emotions and feelings they have, but I can't." He was shaking his head now, wishing he could lie and say that he'd be the supportive partner that John  _deserved_ , but he couldn't do it, couldn't bear to lie to him now, not when things were going right. "I was taught that anything -  _anyone_  - I loved would leave me, would become broken beyond repair. I wanted better than that for you."

"And now you don't?" John was smiling, and Sherlock tried to be annoyed at the joke at his expense, but laying here, touching John and holding John, he couldn't have cared less.

"I am far too selfish to allow you to leave me now." John looked up at him, and Sherlock knew he had spoken poorly, but it had been truthful, and he couldn't take it back.

"Won't  _allow_  me to leave?" John asked. There was no anger or frustration - simply an honest question, full of honest concern and honest hope that Sherlock had meant something else.

"No." Sherlock couldn't stop, couldn't lie or deny what he meant. "You can never leave, because then I would be forced to find you. And I  _would find you_."

John watched him for a moment. "I should probably be terrified of what you just said, but god help me, I just don't care." John shook his head, chuckling. "We're a right fucked pair, aren't we?"

Sherlock reached a hand up and laid his palm against John's cheek. "Yes we are."

This brought John to full on laughter, and Sherlock joined in, pulling him closer and kissing him amidst bursts of giggles.

"So this changes things." John pushed himself up onto his elbow and looked down at Sherlock. "This... changes things a lot."

"I know." Sherlock looked away from John's eyes, focusing on his chest instead because it was so much easier to talk when he wasn't fighting so terribly hard against the desire to kiss John. "I..."

"I need to know... if you meant any of what you said."

Sherlock looked up at John, confused. "What?"

John smirked. "What's the phrase you like? Eloquent as always. I meant, what you said - about me."

Sherlock watched John's face for a moment before he understood. "No. None of it." Sherlock thought back to his conversation with Mycroft. "I had to try and make you hate me."

"Why?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Because it was easier to make you hate me now than have you hate me when I could no longer live without you."

"I don't think it would be possible for me to hate you. Even if you deserved it. And that really  _should_ scare me."

Sherlock opened his eyes and watched John's throat as he swallowed. "You mean that  _I_  should scare you."

John gave him a half shrug. "Maybe."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "So. Last night we said that this... changes things. To what extent are they different?"

John frowned as he sat up fully. Sherlock did the same, scooting closer to the pillows as John sat closer to the foot of the bed. "I really don't know, Sherlock. I mean...  _usually_ , there's dating, there's drinks after work, and movies and dinners and..." John looked at him with a half smile. "We don't have that. Not right now. So, I'm  _really_  out of my depth at the moment."

Sherlock nodded. "I... I've never been in a proper relationship."

"What about Irene?" Sherlock's eyes widened at John's question. His engagement (and subsequent messy-break-up) hadn't ever been a carefully guarded secret, but it certainly wasn't a subject he and John had ever broached before.  _Mycroft's File, no doubt._  "I'm... I'm so sorry. I..." John was looking away now, trying to stammer out an apology.

"For what?" Sherlock cocked his head, taking in everything about John right then. Posture, hand gestures, speech - all of this pointed towards a guilty conscience.  _Guilty for having read the file? Or simply for bringing up what many would consider a taboo subject?_

"I shouldn't... It's not my place to question your life... before...  _hell_ , why is this so difficult?"

"John." John looked up and Sherlock leaned in to capture a kiss, his right hand perched just so, so that his fingers and thumb seemed to hold the left side of John's jaw in place as he kissed him, and  _oh_  but Sherlock did not ever want to stop this.

"I..." John was breathless when Sherlock pulled away. "I think I had a point I was making before... but it doesn't seem to matter now..."

Sherlock chuckled as John opened his eyes. "John, my life before you... it's always open to you. Just ask."

John nodded. "Right. I just... I don't want you to think..."

"Oooh." Sherlock tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "Alright, I know you have  _that_  file, no it doesn't bother me, yes you can ask me about anything in it."

When Sherlock looked back at John, John's mouth was open at an odd angle, like he was trying to figure out how to deny what Sherlock had just said and realizes he can't.

"You.. what... how?"

Sherlock shrugged. "My brother thinks far more highly of himself and his abilities to illude me than he should. I know he met you that first Saturday we were allowed into town. And I know that he gave you a not-insubstantial file about me. It was all very obvious."

John's hands come up and rub over his face a few times, as though he's trying to figure out how he got into any of this. "So... it doesn't bother you. At all."

"No. Should it?"

John shrugged, looking very out of his depth, and Sherlock just wanted to lean over and kiss him again, push him back against the mattress and make John forget the folder, forget this awkward situation, forget everything but Sherlock's lips and hands and body. "Most people..." John shot Sherlock a small smile. "Most people would see this as a tremendous invasion of privacy."

Sherlock gave John a quick half smile. "I'm not most people, John."

John nodded. "Very true."


	26. John

John couldn't remember the last time he'd felt  _giddy_.

And that really was the only way to describe his current emotional state -  _giddy_. Sure, he'd been in relationships before. A few of them might even have been happy ones overall. But each time, he'd never felt _quite_  so euphoric at the idea of seeing that person, talking to them, just sitting down and having dinner even.

But for whatever reason that he was entirely unable to discern, he was over-the-moon about these boring, everyday things when they involved Sherlock.

They'd agreed that for now, they should keep this - whatever it was - between only themselves. Both had admitted that it wasn't a matter of pride - John couldn't care less who thought what about him right now, and Sherlock had never cared before and wasn't about to start now - but they  _were_ afraid. The idea that they might be transferred to new roommates should word of their relationship get out was not appealing to either of them, and they were content for now to simply continue as they had originally.

At least, that's what they'd said before breakfast.

Breakfast had been a study in restraint that they'd barely passed. Sherlock kept trying to reach out and touch John, touch him anywhere, and John had wanted him to, wanted him to touch him and kiss him and never let him go. But they'd endured, and had each said a rather stiff feeling, "See you later," as they hurried off to their respective group therapies.

John had jittered and bounced in his seat the whole time, and when it had come time for his one-on-one session, he'd been unable to hide his smiles and excitement. He'd chalked it up to him and his  _roommate_ patching things up, and getting along better than ever. It had seemed to soothe the doctor.

When lunch rolled around, John was waiting at the entrance to the dining hall when Sherlock raced up, stopping quickly before he nearly tackled John, licking his lips.

"Hello."

John smiled. "Hey." They both started to walk in at the same time, glancing at each other and laughing. Sherlock stepped back and let John go first, which shocked John immensely. They each had a sandwich, eating hurriedly before rushing off to walk the grounds, talking and laughing like there had never been any tension between them.

Sherlock seemed to lead the way, and John was happy to follow, happy just to be able to share his time with Sherlock again.

They had wandered into the gardens when Sherlock turned, seizing John's face in his hands and kissing him desperately. John leaned into it, a small moan rumbling through him and into Sherlock, who seemed to take this as encouragement and intensified the kiss.

"Wait." John was gasping against Sherlock's mouth. "Wait, what if-"

"No one else will be over here for at least another minute." Sherlock refused to stop kissing John. "This whole day has been hell, John. I need this."

John couldn't argue and so he didn't, arms going around Sherlock's torso and pulling him closer still, mouth working with Sherlock's.

Sherlock pulled away first, only far enough that he was no longer kissing John. " _God_ , the things I would..." He kept his eyes closed, taking a deep breath and stepping back.

John's arms fell from him and he stepped back too, putting more distance and cool air between them. "This is going to be trickier than we thought." Sherlock snorted in response but did not open his eyes. "We're really going to need to be more careful, Sherlock."

"I know."

"Seriously."

"I  _know_ , John." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John now.

John nodded. "Ok. Good." He looked around. "So, now what?"

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Now I rush off to Tai Chi, and you find something to do for an hour."

John sighed. "Right. Pretend I'm not just itching to get you back to our room."

"If..." Sherlock licked his lips. "If I were to make a suggestion?" John nodded at him to continue. "Read some more of the file.  _Musical Career_  should have what I'm thinking of."

John sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, considering this. "I've been through that one a bit. Anything I'm looking for in particular? It was more than a bit overwhelming before, and I got... more than a bit frustrated..."

Sherlock began walking back out of the gardens and John followed. "Anything with Irene Adler's name. And anything with the label of, 'unknown male assailant,' or some variant of." Sherlock glanced over, and John was certain there was real sadness in his eyes. "Police reports and hospital records would probably be the most informative."

John stared at him, wide eyed. "There's more than one of each of those?"

Sherlock looked away, watching everything  _but_  John now. "Remember what I told you? About my impulse control problems?" He looked at John now, just as they were nearing the house again. John nodded, and Sherlock gave him a small, sad smile but said nothing else as he opened the door.

John walked with him to the gym, their silence comfortable as his head whirled around the implications of what Sherlock had just said.

Once they arrived, Sherlock turned to John. "I'll see you in an hour."

John smiled at him, hearing the real phrase, the way it was a question only to John's ears. "You know where I'll be." Sherlock nodded, seemingly taking comfort in this, and strode into the gym. John watched as he went over to a small changing room and disappeared, his head turned towards John as he did so.

John took a deep breath and walked quickly back to their room. He grabbed the folder and flipped it open, flicking through pages and pulling various ones out, setting them aside as he went. When finally he'd gone through everything he could, he found he had three neat piles: medical records, police reports, and miscellaneous articles.

He brought them to his bed and sat down. Then he settled in to learn.


	27. Sherlock

The door to his room loomed in front of him. Sherlock hesitated. Beyond this door, John would hopefully still be sitting, reading, waiting for him. Would hopefully  _not_  stare at him like he was a freak of nature the moment he walked in.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

John was sitting on his bed, several neat stacks of paper in front of him, his hands holding another stack as he read. He looked up when Sherlock entered the room and blinked several times. Sherlock swallowed and closed the door.

"Ah." Sherlock looked away. "I was wondering if-"

He didn't get a chance to finish that sentence, because before he knew what was happening, John was up, off his bed, arms going around him and pulling him close, mouth finding Sherlock's, hands running through his hair, and Sherlock forgot all about his previous reservations.

He stood there, just inside the room, kissing John for what seemed like days. It felt wonderful and perfect and somehow undeserved, as though the evidence in the police reports should have eliminated this chance, but here it was regardless.

Sherlock pushed forward, pushing until they came to John's bed and John had toppled over onto all the papers he'd had neatly stacked, a look of pure and absolute desire burning through his eyes. Sherlock took a deep breath, slowly clambering up onto the bed with John, his knees on either side of John's hips now. "We can stop at anytime." The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, and he closed his eyes. "Not that I want to stop, of course."

John's arms were around him, and Sherlock felt himself very suddenly lifted up, so that his knees pressing into John's hips and John's arms around his back were the only things keeping him from falling gracelessly to the floor. He felt John levering him onto his own bed, pushing him back and up so that John could climb up between Sherlock's thighs. The moment their groins touched Sherlock jumped like a nervous school boy.

"You alright?" John pulled back, looking scared and concerned and Sherlock bit his lower lip and nodded, reaching out to pull John closer again, pull him down into a kiss that left no doubt as to how  _alright_ Sherlock was feeling just then. John moaned softly into the kiss as Sherlock's fingers wound their way through his hair, tugging slightly.

"I want you." Sherlock's breath was ragged and his pulse was pounding and he spared a moment to think that this may not be the best idea he'd ever had before quashing it entirely and devoting himself to the task of seducing one John Watson.

" _God_ , Sherlock, you've no idea." John's lips made a trail across Sherlock's jaw, down his neck, and Sherlock shuddered beneath John as his hands moved of their own accord down, down, down John's back, fingertips teasing at the hemline of his jeans as his hands moved to the front of John's body. The decision is made before his brain can interject; one finger slips into the waistband, tugging at the button and popping it open.

John's hand is sudden and warm on Sherlock's wrist as a gust of cool air rushes between them, and Sherlock looks up into John's eyes, surprised. "Not yet." The words are whispered, almost desperate. "I..." John's breathing hard, trembling. "Shit, Sherlock, we... we need to talk first."

Sherlock closes his eyes.  _Of course we do_. "About?"

"About everything."

Sherlock frowns. "Perhaps if I had more data to begin with-"

"Let's start with the police reports then."

Sherlock made a low, frustrated sound that very much resembled a growl. "Two minutes ago you-"

"I know, I know." John sits back, thighs still between Sherlock's, propping them up. "I got carried away."

Sherlock snarls and sits up, scooting towards the side of his bed that is farthest from John right then.  _Conveniently, it's closer to the bathroom, should I feel the need to go fill the tub and drown myself._

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock glances back over his shoulder. "What for?"

"For being an idiot. I started it all - you walked in and I just..." John lets out a soft chuckle, and Sherlock turns a bit, glaring at him. John's chuckle increases in volume now. "You walked in and all I could think about was how much I'd wanted to be kissing you for the last hour."

Sherlock's glare softened minutely, but he held it firmly in place. "And you deduced that the  _best_  course of action would be to kiss me senseless and toss me on the bed, then pull away from me and say we can't do this?"

"I can admit that I wasn't thinking." John shrugged and looked only mildly ashamed. Sherlock decided this was not acceptable.

"Obviously." He saw it when the dig at John's ego failed to connect. John only smiled.

"You weren't exactly innocent in all of this, you know." Sherlock said nothing, so John pressed on. "You push people away. Make them feel stupid."

"People are stupid, they hardly need me to make them feel that way."

"And then you go looking for dangerous situations. Dangerous people."

Sherlock looked down at his fingers, twisting and twining about each other. "I was bored." Sherlock took a moment to let his own words ring through his head. "So. What are your thoughts?"

John pulls Sherlock around so that they're facing each other, his hands taking Sherlock's hands, rough palms sliding over Sherlock's softer skin in an entirely too-appealing way. "My thoughts are that you have... a lot of trauma, and a lot of pain. And you think you deserve it all." Sherlock swallowed but said nothing, watching John's face as it watched their hands. "And despite everything that I read, I'm still eager and willing to stand by your side." John looks up into Sherlock's eyes and smiles at him, warm and real and Sherlock has to stop himself before he leans in and kisses John again. "If you'll let me, that is."

Sherlock nods. "You must tell me. If I start to push you away, if it all becomes too much."

John is thoughtful for a moment but finally nods. "And you'll need to tell me when I crowd you, when you need space." He squeezes Sherlock's hands. "Wow. I... I think that was the easiest relationship talk I've ever been a part of." He laughs, softly at first, then louder and louder. Sherlock joins in. "Oh, god." John is gasping now. "Leave it to you, to be the most interesting and damaged person I've ever known, and the easiest to talk to."

Sherlock ducks his head for a moment, bringing John's hands up to his lips and planting one soft kiss on each set of knuckles. He looks back up at John and grins. "I was never one for holding with convention."

"No, you wouldn't be."

"So... what comes next?"

John shrugs and looks around the room. "I suppose... we could always watch telly..."


	28. John

John was smiling as he showered. Dinner had been awkward for a moment when Sherlock walked up to the table, glancing around like the new kid at school hoping to get a seat with the popular kids. John had simply slid the chair next to him out and smiled. George and Jeremy had stared, gaping at them, and Molly had grinned like a maniac while Cara had whispered at her urgently. John had only heard snippets of the conversation, but what he had heard went along the lines of, "Drawing," or, "Violinist," or, "Famous." Molly just nodded at everything as she pushed the food around her plate before finding something that she deemed worthy of eating.

The conversation had taken a while, starting with George demanding to know what was going on. John had shrugged and told him it had been worked out, things were fine. George had been skeptical and Jeremy had shaken his head in disbelief, but by the end of the meal they were all chatting and even joking about things with each other - Sherlock included.

After dinner, Sherlock and John had lingered in the foyer with their dinner group, Sherlock vibrating slightly and trying to edge away back towards their room. John had finally made their excuses and said good night to everyone, hurrying after Sherlock.

"Why did we just spend nearly twenty minutes chatting?" Sherlock had been irritated, but that was nothing new.

"Because we need to show them that we're alright, and we need to make good impressions. We need to not arouse too much suspicion. And we need for people to stop looking at you like you cut my damn heart out and roasted it on a spit."

Sherlock had glared, but it hadn't been directed at John. "Fine."

"You don't have to like it-"

"Then I won't."

John had sighed and dropped the subject.

Once back at their rooms, they had stood awkwardly together for several minutes before Sherlock announced he'd take a shower. John had smiled and nodded, and walked over to the telly, flicking it back on and flipping through channels until he came across Doctor Who. Sherlock had rolled his eyes the moment he heard it and stepped into the bathroom.

When he'd come back out dressed in his pajamas, John had watched as he'd toweled and combed his hair, appreciating the way Sherlock's body moved and contorted. A lazy smile had spread over his face, and he hadn't realized it until Sherlock had cleared his throat. John had looked at his face then to see a rather bemused expression, one eyebrow quirked. John had blushed and ducked his head, one hand coming up to idly scratch at the back of his neck.

After the show had ended, he'd jumped into the shower himself. He was now just finishing up, and he was still smiling after being caught watching Sherlock. He couldn't help it.

When he stepped out of the bathroom in his own flannel pajama pants and t-shirt, he saw Sherlock sitting in the window seat, a notebook and pen in his hands as he stared out the window. John sat on his bed and watched as he'd suddenly dart his attention back to the notebook, scribbling furiously, then pausing again, head bobbing and mouth moving along with whatever was on the page. Then he'd look back out the window, lost in thought.

"Diary?"

Sherlock turned quickly, looking at John. "What?"

John tilted his head towards the notebook. "Diary? Or journal, or..."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Not as such." He held the notebook out for John, who stood up and came to look at it. He squinted.

"Is that... music?"

Sherlock nodded. "Helps me think."

"Wait." John looked closer. "Is this... are you really  _composing_?"

Sherlock looked back at John, surprised. "Yes, that's what I do. I play, and I compose."

"But this... this looks really... difficult..." John frowned, feeling very silly for what he'd just said. Sherlock grinned.

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I'm  _me_." John had rolled his eyes and walked back to his bed, grabbing Sherlock's file.

"Is it..." He held the file up. "Will it bother you if I read more?"

"Not at all." Sherlock sounded sincere, so John decided he would simply take him at his word. He sat on his bed and opened the file, looking for the pages he'd been working on earlier.

They spend most of the night in companionable silence, Sherlock scribbling musical notations and John looking over police reports and doctor's files. John was fairly certain the only reason that none of these incidents had made the papers was because of Mycroft. He looked generally unassuming and even boring, but he had rattled John, and John did not rattle easily.

When he could no longer make out the words on the paper, he carefully placed everything back in the folder, organizing it so that he could  _hopefully_  find everything easily the next time he pulled it out.

"Alright, I'm wrecked." He stretched, yawning. "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock murmured something noncommittal and John debated getting up, going over,  _kissing him goodnight or something_ , but he refrained, seeing that Sherlock was far too engrossed in his task to be worried about anything else. John shrugged, turned out the light next to his bed, and laid down.

It felt like minutes later when he woke up to the sound of thrashing nearby. He blinked his eyes open and sat up quickly, looking around. Sherlock was in his own bed, breath coming fast and whimpering desperately, almost keening like an animal in pain. Then he was lashing out, legs and arms jerking violently, his whole body shaking.

"Sherlock?" John was out of bed and at Sherlock's side quicker than he could remember. Sherlock was paler than normal, and nearly drenched in sweat. John reached out gently, one hand easing onto his chest.  _Heart rate's through the roof_. John's hand gently reached to Sherlock's forehead, which was clammy to the touch.

"Sherlock!" John tried to whisper as loudly as he could. The shaking was getting worse. "Sherlock!"

"John!" Sherlock's eyes never opened, but he called out. "John, no!"

"Sherlock, I'm fine, wake up!" John tried shaking Sherlock's shoulders a bit, but it did no good. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should, if it would be a good idea...

Then he made up his mind. He pulled back the blanket and slipped in next to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his damp hair gently, whispering words of encouragement into his ear. John remembered doing this for Harry when she'd come home, drunk and out of her mind. Maybe it would help Sherlock with the withdrawals as well.

Sherlock's arms shot out and wrapped around John possessively, tightly. Sherlock's face buried itself in John's neck, and John could feel him inhaling along John's skin, moaning and whispering.

John lay still for several minutes until he found himself abruptly flipped onto his back side, Sherlock hovering over him on hands and knees, head bowed and breathing ragged and labored. "Please." It was whispered so softly that John wasn't sure he'd heard it at first, until it was repeated. "Please, I need this..."

John waited, watching the top of Sherlock's head as it hovered in the air in front of him. "Sherlock?" His voice was soft, but insistent. "Sherlock, you need to wake up." He reached up and ran his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair.

Or at least, he started to - the moment his fingers had made contact and began moving, Sherlock had cringed, hunching and dropping onto John. The air left John's lungs, and he wasn't sure how to get it back at first - all thoughts had evaporated, all ability to make his body do anything was gone, for that moment. John squeezed his eyes shut and counted in his head, like he'd been taught to by the therapists and doctors and  _hell_ , even Sherlock.

When he opened his eyes again, breathing in and out, he heard Sherlock whimpering again, trembling against him and pleading, over and over again. "Please, please, no, please, no, don't,  _please_."

The trembling stopped suddenly, and John stayed as still as he could as Sherlock's head - which had plastered itself to John's left hip - came up and looked up the length of John's body very, very slowly.

"Oh." Sherlock looked surprised, then ashamed, then resigned. "Did I..."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. You didn't... hurt me, or... I'm fine."

Sherlock pushed up then, sitting back on his feet. His hands came to his own thighs, head tilting back as he exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"What? Sorry? For having a nightmare?" John pushed up until he was propped on his elbows. Sherlock made a noise that could be taken to mean yes. "Sherlock, we can't really control... what we dream about."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Withdrawal, mixed with... earlier..." John nodded, and waited for him to say more. "John, I... I don't know if I can keep fighting this."

John pushed up so that he was sitting properly now, and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Don't say that. You  _can_  and  _will_  get through this."

Sherlock looks at John sadly. "And you'll be there? To ensure it?"

John nods at once. "Of course I will."

Sherlock nods, and eases himself down next to John. "Stay with me." It's not a question. John nods again and smiles.

"Of course I will."


	29. Sherlock

Sherlock woke up feeling drained and almost lifeless. The only redeeming quality in waking up right then was that he was curled very thoroughly around John's torso and legs, and John had his arms loosely wrapped around Sherlock in return.

Sherlock shifted his head until he was able to see John's face, peaceful and slack in sleep, and Sherlock smiled as he thought about how much he would enjoy waking up from now on if this was what was in store for him.

Begrudgingly he shifted, eliciting a soft sigh from John as he did so. He wished he could curl back up in that bed and simply stay forever. Everything seemed better when he was touching John.

He stood up and stretched, walking over to the windows. He cracked the blinds and looked out over the grounds as the sun was just beginning to rise. The light painted shadows and shades over everything as it went, and Sherlock smiled, thinking about how nice it would be to get a small house in the country, just him and John...

Arms encircled his waist and he jumped, then settled back into the warm length of John. "Sorry Sherlock, didn't mean to startle you." John's voice was rough and deep and sounded very much like what Sherlock would imagine the finest chocolates would sound like, if played by an orchestra. He closed his eyes and made a mental note for his compositions before opening them again and turning in John's arms.

"I'm sorry."

John looked confused. "What? What for?"

"Last night."

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock." John was shaking his head. "Even you can't control dreams."

"Mmm." Sherlock's nose crinkled for a moment before he smiled at the sleepy look on John's face, leaning down to kiss him softly. "Waking up next to you was... nice. I wouldn't mind the dreams if I wake up to you each time."

John chuckled. "Yeah. Sleeping next to you is... nice." He winked.

Sherlock stepped away from him gently. "Thank-you. Again." He looked over at the bed. "It helped."

John nodded and smiled. "I'm glad."

Breakfast was calm and easy, and they each had an omelet with their usual coffee and papers. Sherlock found some news on the orchestra - nothing terribly interesting, just that they'd replaced one of the violas and that they were in the midst of practicing for their spring season. He felt his heart clench at that, but he told himself that he'd be free soon enough, and then he and John-

The thought stopped him. He lowered his paper just enough to look at John, who had his own paper folded and laid on the table. Sherlock frowned. He realized he'd been making assumptions based on desires. There was no guarantee that he and John would get out of the rehabilitation center at the same time. And then there was always the chance of half-way houses and who knew if they'd even be able to keep in touch if one had left and the other remained...

No, Sherlock was determined to keep in touch with John, no matter what. Hadn't he said as much to Mycroft just the other week? Yes, yes he had. And he would make good on it.

"Sherlock? You alright?" Sherlock blinked and saw John staring at him, concerned. Sherlock smiled quickly and nodded.

"Fine. Thinking." He pulled his paper back up over his face. John said nothing else, and a moment later Sherlock heard rustling across from him as John changed pages.

When they'd finished breakfast, Sherlock walked John to his group therapy room. "I heard them say that, after this week, we can start coming every two days instead." John looked over at Sherlock with a smile. "We may need to find something to do in the meantime."

Sherlock's heart raced and he felt his face flush - John laughed at him and waved as he stepped back. Sherlock gave a little wave of his own, then headed straight to his one-on-one specialist.

A quick knock on her door and he heard her call out to come in. He opened the door slowly, stepping into the room.

"Oh, Sherlock, I wasn't expecting you for another hour." Dr. Gregson, a young woman with wavy brown hair and small lips that reminded him of Molly for some reason, looked up at him and smiled.

"I know. I... I hope I'm not... " He took a deep breath, a hand running through his hair. "Last night, I ... the withdrawals, they were... bad." He looked around, swallowing. "I was..."

"I'm free now." He looked at Dr. Gregson and nodded, closing the door and settling into a chair.

"Thank-you."

"Tell me what happened."

"I don't... remember much..."  _Except for the feelings of helplessness, the way I woke up hovering over John and how badly I wanted him right then, the sweating and the shaking and the desperate desire to do anything at all as long as there was some release..._  "I... I was having nightmares. Or flashbacks. Or..."

"You saw what had happened to you before you came here."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded quickly, wringing his hands. "I could see it and feel it and taste it and..."

"Did your roommate notice?"

 _Did he notice me making obscene noises while my subconscious tried to convince me to let him fuck me? Yes, I think he might have done..._  "He heard me... came to check on me."

Dr. Gregson watched Sherlock for a moment before responding. "How did his presence affect you?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why... would that be important?"

Dr. Gregson cocked her head. "You went through a physically and sexually traumatic experience, Sherlock. One that involved another man." Sherlock watched her, listened. He didn't like therapists, but Dr. Gregson was, of course, the exception that proved the rule. "So, if you had a nightmare - about this other man - and you woke up to see your roommate hovering next to you..."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "He was... calming, actually. I felt better. Safer. When he was there."

Dr. Gregson's face remained impassive, and Sherlock wondered if he'd said too much.

"How did you sleep after the nightmare?"

"Well. Really well."

"Did you fall asleep easily?"

"Yes."

"What might have been the reason behind that?"

Sherlock frowned. "I don't..."

"You woke up from a flashback to a traumatic event in your life, saw your roommate, and you were able to fall asleep easily and sleep well after that. Something-" She looked at him pointedly. "-changed."

Sherlock felt like a deer caught in headlights. "Perhaps... I..." He pursed his lips, looking away for a minute before looking back at Dr. Gregson. Her gaze softened a bit.

"Ah." She smiled at him slightly. "I think I understand." Sherlock looked down quickly.  _Two days_. He'd had John for only  _two days_. And now it was all undone. Now they would be transferred to new roommates, and kept apart as much as possible to, 'aid in their recovery.'

"Dr. Gregson-"

"Your roommate understands you." Sherlock looked up. She was still smiling. "He's probably had someone very close to him with substance or alcohol abuse issues, and is well equipped for helping you back to reality when withdrawals and nightmares are at their worst." She stared at him, and Sherlock felt his heart leap. Was she really going to cover up what Sherlock was fairly certain she'd figured out?

"Yes. His sister."

"Then he's probably the best roommate you could have right now. I'll make a note of it in your file, and be sure to see that a note is made in - what's your roommate's name?"

"John Watson."

Dr. Gregson grabbed a pen and made a quick note. "Then I'll make sure there's a note in John's file as well."

Sherlock blinked. "Thank-you."

Dr. Gregson smiled brightly. "Strictly off the record, Mr. Holmes, I'm a terribly hopeless romantic. And to be honest, when you said things went badly with your roommate a few weeks ago, I was concerned. Your behavior became cold, distant, and stand-offish. Even more so than usual." She looked at him sadly. "I was very worried about what you might try to do."

Sherlock looked away. "So was I, to be honest."

Dr. Gregson nodded. "Now as I know that you are not currently pursuing a relationship, I will tell you this only for future reference." Sherlock grinned as she continued. "Establishing a relationship whilst in recovery - which you will be in for quite some time, even after leaving Clouds - is... difficult at best." Sherlock swallowed. "But openness, and truthful, non-judgmental communication are going to be your best tools. Whether the relationship is romantic or platonic or even familial and in need of fixing." She leaned forward. "Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Thank-you."

She smiled, grabbing a small piece of paper and scribbling out a note on it. "Here you go. I know it feels a bit like primary school, needing a note from the nurse to explain why you were late to class, but..." She shrugged and handed him the slip. He stood up and took it from her. "We'll talk about the withdrawals when you come in for your proper session."

Sherlock smiled at her. "I..."

"Don't mention it."

Sherlock gave a slight bow to her and slipped out of the office, not trying to hide the large grin on his face as he walked to group therapy.


	30. John

"So. Had an interesting conversation with a woman named Dr. Gregson today." John watched Sherlock as he said this. They were at lunch, which today included one of the best minestrones John had ever experienced. Sherlock looked up at him from over his own bowl of soup (chicken noodle, which had made John chuckle) and quirked one eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

John nodded. "Something about making sure that you and I weren't transferred to new roommates except under dire circumstances." He gave Sherlock an intent look. "Something I need to know about then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not really. I went to see her because of the withdrawals... last night."

"And that lead to her coming to find me? Asking if I felt comfortable being semi-assigned to you here?" Sherlock pursed his lips and remained quiet. John shook his head. "She knows." His voice was soft, confused. "And she... what?"

"Later?" Sherlock looked at John with such hope, and John nodded.

"After lunch, later. Not after dinner, or after activities, or anything else."

Sherlock watched him a moment before nodding. John finished his soup, enjoying the taste and feel of it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed something so simple.

To his credit, Sherlock did not draw out his own meal. He finished almost as soon as John did, and the two walked back to their room, Sherlock humming softly and John enjoying the sound of it.

Once the door had closed behind them, John sat on his bed. Sherlock looked torn between the two, but finally decided on his own bed, sitting swiftly.

"What happened?"

Sherlock sighed. "I went to see Dr. Gregson about the withdrawals. Her first questions were about you."

"Why me?"

"You read the papers. You know what everyone believes happened."

John nodded. "Yes, the ra-..." He couldn't finish the word even, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Rape, John, it's a simple enough word."

"I just thought... it might be a bit insensitive." John looked at his feet, rubbing them over each other. "Hang on... what everyone  _believes_  happened? So..."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Well heard, John. I wasn't raped."

John looked up at him, surprise and a vast amount of relief shining through everything. "You weren't?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No... it..." He licked his lips and closed his eyes. "In the reports. The ones you read."

"They all classified things as... less than consensual."

"That's because my brother was very good at two things. Keeping my addiction secret, and keeping what I would do to satisfy said addiction out of the public eye." Sherlock watched John, and John felt incredibly uncomfortable suddenly, hearing this much honesty from Sherlock.

"You... you let them-"

"Him. Not them."

"Oh god." John's hand went to his head. "You... oh god." John felt dizzy. "You just...  _whored_  yourself for drugs?" His voice was barely above a whisper, and Sherlock nodded.

"We had an agreement. He got me what I needed, he took what he wanted."

"And you were fine with this?"

Sherlock watched John still, his eyes searching him over. John wondered if this was a test, something that he had to pass in order for this to work between him and Sherlock.

"How many men have you had sex with?"

John sputtered. "What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm curious."

John frowned. "None. What's that-"

"How many women?"

"I dunno, maybe... seven? Eight?"

Sherlock nodded. "I've only ever had sex with two people. One woman - my former fiancée - and one man - the one who introduced me to cocaine in the first place." John waited, wondering where this was going. Sherlock paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "So, is your question about me being fine with the arrangement in reference to the idea of trading drugs for sex, or to the fact that the sex was with another man?"

John opened his mouth but nothing came out. He closed it again, staring at Sherlock and licking his lips. "Both. And not because I'm judging you." John crossed his arms. "I'm curious."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Interesting. You say that and cross your arms - defensive gesture, one that would indicate that despite your sexual interest in me you are still entirely uncomfortable with the idea of _us_  having sex-"

"Now, hang on! I never said that!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Body language, John. Picture is worth a thousand words, and right now the picture of you in front of me is practically screaming all of them."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Yes, the idea of having sex is... terrifying." He looked up at Sherlock and continued quickly. "But it would terrify me if you were a woman. Or a transgendered person. Or, basically, because you're human. The idea of having sex is absolutely frightening to me."

"Why?" Sherlock looked so confused that John gaped at him.

"Seriously?" John looked away for only a second. "Sherlock, you have  _intense_ sexual traumas in your life. We're not talking about someone with  _Daddy Issues_  who just wants to find someone who'll make them feel good for a while. One wrong move, and..." John drew in a shaky breath. "I could set off something in your brain, some trigger, and..." John wiped at the lower half of his face. "I cannot even tell you what it would do to me - how much it would hurt me - to see fear in your eyes during sex and know that I caused it."

Sherlock leaned back, his face blank. John watched him, feeling himself shake as his mind wandered to images he never wanted to see. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back and taking several deep breaths. He opened his eyes when he felt something bump his knee.

Sherlock was standing in front of him, hands in his pockets, face still blank. Then he leaned down and kissed John, softly. John brought his hands up to lightly cup Sherlock's face.

When Sherlock pulled back, he looked flushed, and John imagined his own skin was a bit brighter at the moment.

"Forgive me."

John looked startled. "For what?"

"For assuming the worst of you." Sherlock moved to sit beside John. "I thought that..."

John nodded. "Yeah. It's fine."

"No."

"Alright, it's not fine. You're forgiven anyway." Sherlock chuckled, and John smiled. "Maybe we... we were both a bit defensive."

"The answer was no."

"Hmm?"

"Your question. No. I wasn't fine with it. I tried alternatives. Tried bargaining. He refused. I'd go months without it, just to prove to him that I could. And then... I couldn't last anymore. A vicious cycle that eventually... I stopped fighting."

John reached out and put a hand on Sherlock's leg. "I can't imagine what that was like. I was always a casual drinker. And then, it sort of..."

"Changed."

"Yeah."

Sherlock tightened his fingers around John's hand. "How will... When do you think we should... try, that is?"

John frowned. "Um... I dunno. I mean, isn't sex the sort of thing that happens when you both know you're ready?"

Sherlock snorted. "I wouldn't honestly know what being ready meant."

"Oh, right." John bit his lip. "Well.. let's... give it a month. And see how we feel then."

Sherlock nodded. "Sensible. Easy to manage, easy to remember." He smiled at John. "Sometimes, John, your insight astounds me."

In response, John leaned over and kissed him again.


	31. Sherlock

One month had sounded like nothing - a trifle, really. What was a month, after all?

Of course, the moment it had been agreed upon, it suddenly seemed to loom over Sherlock like a pendulum, swinging slow and steady. Seconds ticked by as slow as years. It was maddening.

Sherlock looked at the calendar on his phone. It had only been two days.

And in those two days, he'd been more focused on one of the most vulgar and base drives in human nature than he'd ever felt in his life.

Distracting. It was mind-bogglingly distracting. Sherlock hated distractions.

"Tell me it's not just me."

John looked at Sherlock over breakfast the next day, chewing slowly. He swallowed and frowned. "What?" His voice was low, just as Sherlock's was.

"Tell me I'm not the only one here who can't think straight." Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table, a boring rhythm, one of his least favorite concertos, but one that usually allowed him to focus on the problem at hand.

"I don't-"

"I want..." Sherlock grimaced, and sat back, staring at John.

John's mouth made a little surprised, 'o,' and he nodded. "Oh. Right." He shook his head. "Not just you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Then perhaps-"

"No."

Sherlock glared. "You didn't even let me finish."

"You're going to ask to, 'amend the terms of our arrangement.' The answer's no."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "How many times?"

"Three since yesterday morning."

Sherlock looked down at his plate. He'd already asked three times since  _yesterday_?

"It's distracting."

"I know."

"Then why?"

John sat back and licked his lips. Sherlock focused on them, could not see anything but that tongue, those lips, and his brain immediately began flipping through scenarios Sherlock wanted desperately to see happen.

"That's why."

"What?" Sherlock popped his eyes up to meet John's. John gave him a half-smile.

"You couldn't even watch me lick my lips without... well."

Sherlock looked away. "As I said before, it's distracting."

"Imagine how it'll be after."

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a long, shuddering breath. He counted to ten. Then he counted in German. And then in French. Then he looked at John again.

"What if it's like a song?"

John chuckled. "Never heard anyone compare  _that_  to a song, but alright, explain."

"You can't stop thinking about a song. You hear it in your head over and over. What do you do?"

John nodded thoughtfully. "You put it on. Listen to it a few times."

"And then you can think again."

"Not always." John crossed his arms over his chest. "Sometimes it just gets worse."

Sherlock smirked. "I very sincerely doubt that what we're discussing would get worse." John blushed.

"The cravings might." John allowed himself a little smile.

"Then we would simply need more data."

"Purely scientific study, of course."

"Precisely. And this study would need to be conducted regularly, of course."

"Of course. Wouldn't want one or two lackluster results skewing it all, would we."

"Indeed." Sherlock grinned as John bit his lower lip.

"You're a bastard." John started giggling. "Truly."

Sherlock shrugged, his grin still in place. "And yet."

John nodded. "And yet."

They were silent for several moments before finally Sherlock spoke again. "Two weeks."

"Sherlock-"

"And we talk. We see how things are."

"Sherlock, that's-"

"We've been hopelessly dancing around the entire idea since the beginning, John."

John closed his eyes. "That's true."

"So what would we gain by dragging this out longer than we really needed to?"

"We'd be sure-"

"I am sure."

John opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock. "Sure of what, exactly?"

Sherlock stared back at him. "You." John looked away, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks. "I've never been more sure of anything, John."

John bit his lip, then nodded. "Alright. Two weeks.  _Only_  on the condition that if either of us is in anyway not alright with that step-"

"I do not wish to take advantage, John."

John gave Sherlock a sad smile. "Not quite what I was worried about, honestly."

Sherlock's mouth parted slightly as he parsed John's meaning. Then he licked his lips and nodded. "Ah."

John shook his head. "For a genius, you really are spectacularly stupid at times."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then smiled.

After breakfast, they migrated back to their room in a silence that was not entirely awkward, but certainly not the most comfortable one they'd had. Sherlock immediately picked up his bow and started rosining it. Music helped. Music focused him and gave him clarity. Music would get him through this, like it had so many things before.

John stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes. "You haven't played in a while."

Sherlock paused as he was checking the tune of his violin and looked over at John, who had one eye cracked and a goofy smile on his face. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. "True."

"I've missed it."

"Have you?" Sherlock frowned. "Really?"

John's smile turned to a grin. "Of course. You play beautifully."

Sherlock snorted. "I would hardly be one of the most sought after musicians if I was merely an adequate player."

John giggled. "That's probably true."

Sherlock set his violin and bow on his bed for a moment, stretching out his arms and rolling his shoulders. The truth was, he hadn't played lately for several reasons. One had been very convenient - he had been avoiding John, and so had wished to keep out of the room whenever possible. The other was that he was horribly out of practice.

It had been months between his stay in the hospital that had brought him to Clouds House, and that Sunday Mycroft had brought the instrument in for him. And after that night he'd played for John, he'd woken up stiff and sore in a way he hadn't had worried about in some time.

It was embarrassing.

So now he loosened his arms and prepared himself for the task of playing.

Finally satisfied, he picked up both violin and bow, and drew out a long, slow note.

It was beautiful, and Sherlock sighed carefully, drawing the bow across again and closing his eyes.

He started with simple warm-ups, fingering exercises, and then moved on to a piece he'd composed several years ago. Some people thought him mad, to keep so much of his music memorized, but he didn't care what they thought, and right then he was glad to have it with him when he had so little sheet music.

He played for several minutes, finally opening his eyes and looking at John.

John, who was staring at him like he was the most amazing creature ever to have lived. Who was staring at him with so much compassion and caring and  _wanting_ , and Sherlock gave him a small smile before he closed his eyes again and simply played.

When he finished that piece, he moved on to another, one of the concertos by Bach this time, and he opened his eyes again.

John was still watching him and smiling.

Sherlock knew then - he wanted to see John watch him play for the rest of his life.


	32. John

_Blip_. John fished around in his pocket for his phone, opening a new message from Harry.

[ _I miss you. -Harry_ ]

John smiled. [ _I miss you too, Harry. How's work? -John_ ]

[ _It's been worse, I suppose. How's... Sherlock? -Harry_ ]

John smiled. He was sitting outside, soaking up what little sun there was at the moment and waiting for Sherlock to be finished with his Tai Chi class.

[ _Things are... really good. This week has been much better, honestly. -John_ ]

He took a long, deep breath in through his nose while he waited for a response. He didn't wait long.

[ _Oh. My. GOD. John Hamish. You didn't. -Harry_ ]

John chuckled quietly, sending her a quick response. [ _Didn't what? I don't understand, Harry. -John_ ]

Instead of a reply text, his phone started ringing. He shook his head and answered it. "Couldn't just send me a text, Harry?"

"John Hamish Watson. You tell me you did  _not_ forgive him."

"Why?"

"You arse."

"Hang on, why am  _I_  an arse?"

"He treated you like-"

"And he apologized." John grimaced, glad Harry wasn't here. He didn't want to explain the circumstances of their whereabouts when the apology had happened.

"I hope you mean he bought you a fucking car and agreed to do your bidding for a year."

"You kiss our mum with that mouth?" John was laughing. He was in far too good a mood right then to even care that Harry was upset.

She was silent for a moment before laughing with him. "I think it's safe to assume she's more worried about where's it's been than what it says."

John burst into loud, almost indecent laughter. "God, Harry, I miss this."

Their laughter died down a bit. "Yeah. Me too, John. Why'd we  _stop_ doing this?"

John licked his lips. "Too many stupid reasons." He closed his eyes. "You're coming tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, course I am." Harry sounded... pensive? Maybe. Sherlock would listen and tell John everything that Harry was feeling, if he were here to listen in. John wished he was able to deduce so much so fast. It would make navigating his family life a lot easier.

"You OK?"

Harry was silent. John started mentally flipping through what he called his  _List of Harry's Trigger Days_. It wasn't anyone's birthday, it was nothing connected with Clara, and no one he knew of had died today. So what was it?

"Harry?"

"Yeah, I... I just really miss you. And Cla-" Harry choked back a sob. "I miss you, is all."

"Harry."

"I'll be fine, John. I won't even drink. I swear."

John sighed. "I'm holding you to that."

"Tomorrow you will see one sober sister sitting down to chat with you."

"And not punching my roommate."

Harry paused. "I make no promises. But I will try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Only for you."

"Oh how gracious." John smiled slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

"See ya."

He rang off, and was just putting the phone back in his pocket when it rang again. He answered.

"Miss me already?"

"Hello, Dr. Watson."

His face froze. "Mr... Mycroft? Holmes?"

"I see your memory is as clear as ever."

John frowned. "What can I do for you?"

"I do love your directness, John. Such an admirable quality."

"Yeah, it's great. Maybe you should try it."

In response, John heard Mycroft laughing. "Yes, yes. Well, as you wish. I have something of a... proposition for you."

John's frown deepened. "That sounds... dangerous, coming from you."

"I assure you, I will not be asking anything untoward of you. I merely wish to... help you."

"How's that?"

"I wish to hire you."

"Oh, that all? Yeah, I'm sure it's no problem to borrow one of the vans here, nip back to London everyday-"

"I see your comprehension skills could use a bit of polishing."

"Then tell me what I'm supposed to understand."

Mycroft huffed a very put-upon sigh into the phone. "I would like for you to gather information for me-"

"On what?"

"Not what, but whom."

"Alright then. Whom."

"Sherlock." John sucked in a breath as Mycroft continued. "Nothing indiscrete. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with."

 _There's a great deal that I would feel uncomfortable with sharing about Sherlock these days._  "And why do you want me to do that?"

"Because medical files are all so very clinical. And my brother is not a clinical man."

John smiled. "OK. I still don't-"

"I want to know how bad his withdrawals are, John."

"What?" John was not sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it.

"He was always very secretive, John." Mycroft's voice sounded tired. "He is quite adept at subterfuge, and I fear he may relapse. I need to know how bad his withdrawals are, if I am to truly know whether he is getting better or not."

John abruptly felt like an ass for thinking the worst. "Oh." He was silent for a moment, contemplating this side of Mycroft he wasn't entirely sure even Mycroft was comfortable with. "No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Beg all you want, the answer's no."

"John-"

"No, Mycroft."

There was silence for a moment. "Why not?"

"Because he trusts me." John stood up and paced a bit, walking through grass that was just a bit too tall but not yet enough to truly need trimming. "Sherlock trusts me. And I'm not going to jeopardize that by running off behind his back to tell anyone anything."

Mycroft hummed for a moment. "I see."

"Do you?"

"Oh yes, John. A great deal more than you might like to know."

John huffed in irritation. "Like what then?"

"You're in love with my brother. It was bound to happen, really, you mustn't blame yourself for being so transparent."

"Transp- what? You... What?"

"Your voice. It changed when you talked about Sherlock, did you know that? More so than the last time we had a little... chat." John could just picture Mycroft sitting in some large office, leaning back in his chair and grinning. "His behavior was off-putting and childish, but my encouragement helped you see the truth, and now we have reconciliation. I confess I am surprised it came so soon, I had believed you might hold out a bit longer."

John snapped. "You... you treat my life, my emotions, like a game, and then you gloat about it? You arrogant prig!"

"Now now, John-"

"No. You can sod right the hell off, Mycroft. I don't want your help. And I won't give you mine.  _I'll_  make sure Sherlock's getting better.  _I'll_ make sure he doesn't relapse. And I'll be damned if I do it because  _you want me to_."

John didn't hear anything else - he hung up, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and stormed back into the house. He felt the phone buzzing and heard it ringing softly, but he only reached into the pocket and hit  _silent_ each time.

He got back to his room and realized he was shaking. He went over to the window seats, staring outside and taking deep breaths. He kept at it, finally closing his eyes, breathing still deep and steady as he tried to calm himself.

"John?"

He whirled around to see Sherlock halfway across the room. He hadn't even heard the door open.

"Oh. Sherlock." He swallowed. "I..."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock stopped about three feet from him, watching him warily. "Have I-"

"No." John shook his head quickly. "No, not you. But-"

"Mycroft."

John nodded. Sherlock stepped in closer. "What did he say?"

"He offered to... help me. I don't even know how, because we never got to that. He wanted..."

Sherlock snorted. "Typical. He wanted reports on me, didn't he?"

John frowned. "Yes, he... hang on, how... what?"

Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft thinks that everything - and everyone - has a price."

"I told him no."

Sherlock laughed. "Pity. If he'd been offering money, we could have split the fee." He winked at John. "Think it through next time."

And just like that, John was laughing.


	33. Sherlock

"You have some serious explaining to do."

Sherlock sat at one of the small tables on the patio, staring at Mycroft. No, not staring,  _glaring_ , as though through sheer will and anger he could force the answers out of his brother's head. Mycroft never so much as flinched.

"It won't happen again."

"It shouldn't have happened at all."

Mycroft smiled. "True. He is resourceful, that one."

Sherlock made a disgusted, choking sound. "You speak as though you admire him."

Mycroft tilted his head. "He is second only to you in his musical capabilities, and his deviousness may even excel your own high standards, Sherlock. Why should I not admire someone who has unnerved my brother so?"

 _Because if you knew what he was... what he did... you'd do your best to have his head on a pike before I could blink, and I hate you sometimes because you love me so much._  "He impersonated you-"

"Which is something, though I am truly loathe to remind you, that you yourself have done on a number of occasions."

"-and he came here to, as you so conveniently put it, 'unnerve me,' And that,  _dear brother_ , is entirely counterproductive."

Mycroft's smile was wide and proud for just a moment, before softening. "I trust this means you are taking your rehabilitation seriously, Sherlock?"

"I am serious about many things, most of which you've never once concerned yourself with." Sherlock kept glaring, kept lashing out. He didn't know how else to respond.

Mycroft swallowed at stared at him. "Always so aggressive." His voice was soft, and sad. "Has it never occurred to you that you and I are on the same side?"

Sherlock snorted. "Oddly enough? No."

Mycroft looked at the table between them. It might as well have been an ocean and continents and entire worlds, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Where does this passionate hatred come from, Sherlock?" Mycroft lifted his gaze, stare boring into Sherlock's.

"Take your pick, Mycroft, we've got decades to choose from."

"I meant for  _him_."

Sherlock leaned away quickly, as though Mycroft had reached out and slapped him. "What?"

"You hate him. You hate him with a passion I've only ever seen applied to your music. Why?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly. "It's none of your concern, Mycroft."

Mycroft watched him a moment longer, and then his expression fell. "Sherlock."

"Shut-up."

"He did this-"

"I said, Shut. Up.  _Now_."

"You should have told me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing in, the sound almost a sob. "And said what? That he knew exactly how to make me dance? That he knew just what to say and what to give me to get me into bed?"

Mycroft kept his voice low. "That he drugged and raped you."

Sherlock laughed bitterly, for once glad that he and Mycroft were nearly the only people outside. "Did he? Did he really?"

Mycroft's expression changed. No longer sad, now he looked positively horrified. "What would you call it, then?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I never told him no. And he never... forced the issue."

"He put you in the hospital, Sherlock, for  _god's sake_ -"

"That wasn't... intentional."

Mycroft opened his mouth, then shut it again quickly, taking a moment to consider Sherlock's words. "Then tell me what was intentional, Sherlock. Because I can't see a man putting you through... all of that, if it was not meant to either hospitalize you or kill you." Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a second before the realization hit him, and Mycroft's eyes closed. "Oh, Sherlock... you could not possibly want that."

Sherlock examined his fingernails as he answered. "And why not?"

Mycroft's mouth opened in surprise. "You should have come to me, Sherlock, I would have helped you, I would have done everything I can-"

"Stop it, Mycroft, this behavior does not become you at all."

"No,  _you_  stop, Sherlock!" Mycroft leaned forward, hands slamming onto the table. Sherlock jumped at the sound, glancing around. The others outside had looked over, but at his glare quickly turned away, back to their own conversations. Sherlock looked back at Mycroft now, angry.

"You're causing-"

"No, Sherlock, you get to sit down, be quiet, and listen this time." Mycroft's tone left no room for argument, so Sherlock did just as he'd been told. "You are selfish, spoiled, and have an entitlement complex longer than any I've ever seen. You think it was so easy for me, growing up? You think I had the world handed to me? You are very, very wrong, Sherlock Holmes, and if you cared at all about anyone but yourself you'd have seen that a long time ago."

Mycroft took a deep breath, settling back in his seat. He looked calm, but his eyes were still icy and unhappy. "I fought long and hard to get where I am now, and if you had half the drive I had, you'd have exceeded even my accomplishments. You are a brilliant man, Sherlock. But you are not a terribly smart one."

With that, Mycroft stood up and gathered his umbrella. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He looked at the handle of his umbrella as he spoke. "I'll see you next week."

"Of course." Sherlock stood up, but Mycroft had already walked away. Sherlock stared after him.

Several quiet seconds passed, and then his phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket and opened the new message. [It seems you have another visitor today. Don't worry, he's on the list. I've sent him back to find you. -MH]

Sherlock looked up to see Greg Lestrade, Conductor and Maestro for the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Sherlock's face split into a smile.

"Lestrade."

"God, Sherlock, it's good to see ya!" Lestrade strode over and shook Sherlock's hand, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "Listen, I'm sorry I couldn't get here-"

"No, no, you're busy, I know." Sherlock gestured to the table, and Lestrade nodded, pulling out the seat Mycroft had vacated.

"Christ, you look great." Lestrade looked Sherlock over, marveling at him. "I don't think you've ever looked so healthy. How d'you feel?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a half smile and cocked his head to the side. "I'm well. And you seem to be doing quite well yourself."

Lestrade looked at him, confused. "How do you mean?"

"New girlfriend... about... five, no, seven years younger than you are. I take it your divorce is finalized?"

Lestrade sighed. "I still don't know how you do that."

"Your clothes, and the perfume lingering on them. Tan line from where your ring used to be, but it's faint now, which means you've stopped wearing it permanently, where as the last time I saw you you were still waffling on the idea."

"My clothes?"

"You would never have picked them out yourself, ergo, a woman did. A woman with considerable taste and fashion sense. Young woman, judging by the cut and brand. She'd have to be at least five years younger than you, seven's more likely. You wouldn't be comfortable dating someone even younger than that. Am I wrong?"

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "No, you're not wrong, Sherlock,  _fucking hell_  I've missed you."

"Really?" Sherlock looked surprised. Lestrade grinned.

"Well, maybe I've missed your playing. Your... whatever this is..."

"Deductions?"

"Yeah sure, alright. Your deductions, maybe I've missed them a little less."

Sherlock ducked his head and smiled.  _Odd that this should suddenly feel so natural._  "At least someone has missed my playing. Though my bo-" Sherlock hesitated. "Roommate, has enjoyed hearing me."

Lestrade's eyebrows perked up. "Were you about to say-"

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"Absolutely not, Lestrade. Perish the thought."

"Holy balls, you were."

Sherlock blushed and looked down at the table. "Don't, please, Lestrade. I'm... asking nicely."

"Alright, keep your hair on." Lestrade was grinning. "So you gonna gimme the tour, or what?"

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "Would you like one?"

"Yeah. This place looks gorgeous, and I don't know when I'll get to come back. It's nice to get London out your lungs. A walk in the fresh air, do us both some good, eh?"

Sherlock nodded. "Follow me."

They started towards the gardens, and Lestrade took in a deep breath."This is beautiful."

"Yes, it's... nice."

"Not impressed?" Lestrade put his hands in his trouser pockets. "I'd have thought you'd be able to compose some lovely pieces out here, with so few distractions."

"London is home. The... distractions, help me focus on what's really important."

Lestrade was quiet a moment as he looked around. "Just promise me something, Sherlock."

"What?"

"Be careful."

"What do you mean by that?"

Lestrade looked at him and snorted. "With your...  _roommate_."

Sherlock blushed again and glared at Lestrade. "Shut. Up."

"I just... don't want this to end up with you... like this again..."

Sherlock looked away then. "This is... different."

Lestrade nodded. "I hope so, Sherlock. You need different."

Sherlock silently agreed.


	34. John

John fidgeted in his seat, staring out the window silently. Sherlock sat next to him as the bus drove on towards the small town they were allowed to visit.

John couldn't help but feel nervous as they arrived. After all, his first and only trip here previously had brought him face to face with Mycroft for the first time, had given him access to all sorts of information that he still wasn't sure he should have, and had made him wonder when his life had slipped so thoroughly out of his control. Even when he'd been at his worst with the drinking, he'd known precisely what he was doing and just how bad he was making his situation.

But now?

He took a deep breath in through his nose, and felt Sherlock's arm brush against his. He smiled at the window, nodding minutely.

He wasn't sure if he should be grateful that Sherlock was just as confused by this whole thing. It felt somehow wrong to feel better because of that. So he sat and stared out the window at the trees and fields rolling by, until they hit the drop off point in front of the Church of Christ.

"Now remember, we will be right here should any of you need us." John watched the doctor - not one he knew, an older gentleman with dark skin and large glasses - as he spoke, nodding along at the appropriate moments. Then they were dismissed, with firm instructions to be returned to the bus in no less than four hours. Sherlock stood up, waiting for John, and the two of them walked silently down the small aisle and off the bus.

When they had gotten a small distance away, Sherlock rubbed at his face. "Oh hell, I think my brain's gone to rot, sitting there listening to that  _again_."

John smirked. "I'm surprised you even paid any attention to it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but slanted a smile in John's direction. "I might have tuned out most of it."

John chuckled. "You always do." They walked towards the same cafe that John had met Mycroft in, and John felt his stomach rumble. "Lunch?"

Sherlock gave the place an appraising look, then nodded. "Probably the only decent food in the town."

"You've... you've never eaten in the town?" John frowned as they stepped up, waiting for the hostess.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I?"

"Oh right, you don't, usually."

The hostess - a young, blonde woman with very short hair and green eyes that had to be contacts - came over to them, smiling. "Hello. Two?"

John smiled and nodded before Sherlock could say anything. "Yes, just two, thank you."

She grabbed menus, then showed them to a small table near one of the large front windows. They sat down, taking the menus with murmured thanks.

"Anything to start?"

"I'd love an espresso." John gave her a friendly grin before he glanced to Sherlock.

"Same, thank you." The hostess nodded and left.

"So." John folded his hands on the table in front of him and regarded Sherlock. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Fine." His voice was a slow drawl and his eyes narrowed and John tried to keep his face pleasant, blank, and unconcerned. Sherlock only scowled more. "Why?"

John shook his head as the hostess came and set their espressos down.

"Did you two need a bit more time?"

"I'll have the chicken parm." John smiled, sipping his espresso. "Oh, this is lovely."

"I'd like the shrimp primavera, thank you." Sherlock handed her their menus with a nod. She smiled at both of them and was off again.

"Wow, a thank you, did you hurt yourself trying to be so nice?" John was grinning. Sherlock sighed loudly.

"I wasn't entirely rude, John."

"No, no not  _entirely_."

Sherlock leaned forward, putting his face in his hands and groaning. "John, I can barely think about  _only_ five things right now, I do not wish to strain myself by attempting to remember societies ridiculous rules."

John laughed at him. "Drink your espresso, you'll feel better."

Sherlock grabbed the cup with a glare, but sipped at it and smiled slightly. "It is rather good."

"So tell me seriously, Sherlock." John set his cup down and leaned forward, elbows on the table and expression serious. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock licked his lips and set down his cup, nodding. "I'm fine. Just... nervous, I suppose."

"About?" John had an idea, of course he did, after all, 2 weeks went by awfully fast it seemed.

"Don't be daft, John." Sherlock's expression was mildly annoyed and mostly... John couldn't actually tell. One moment it looked almost sad, the next it was anticipatory, the next terrified, and then predatory.

"You're not ready."

Sherlock glared at him. "Do not. Presume to think.  _For me_."

John returned his stare, steady and unwavering. "I'm not. I'm... observing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back. "Well go on then." He gave a flourish of his hand, watching John with a smug smile. "You know my methods."

John sighed and mirrored Sherlock's posture, arms crossing over his chest. "You sure?" Sherlock nodded once. "Alright." John took a deep breath. "You're defensive. I said you weren't ready and you immediately went on the attack. Most often that's just the lady protesting too much, if you'll pardon the expression."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Then there's your posture. One moment closed off, hunched over, protective. The next distanced, still closed. You're leaning back right now, arms crossed over your chest-"

"So are you."

"Don't interrupt. Your posture right now says you're trying to make me think you're ready, leaning back, opening most of your front towards someone, that says willing, but the arms, they keep you closed off, defensive. And your frustrations earlier tell me you're nervous, so, putting on airs, wanting me to think you're ready for something you're not."

John watched him for a moment, silence and heartbeats stretching between them. "So. How'd I do?"

Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose. "Well, John. Really well."

"Miss anything of importance?"

Sherlock smiled, leaned forward, and stared at John. "Obviously."

John watched him, confused. "What did I miss?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "Well, why don't you observe? And then tell me."

John leaned in, looking him over for a moment. "Pupils."

"Good, John. Excellent. And what do they tell you?"

"They're dilated, so... attraction. Strong attraction."

Sherlock picked up his espresso and finished it. "Of course."

John shook his head. "I still don't think we should, Sherlock. Not yet."

Sherlock scoffed. "And why not?"

John licked his lips and looked at the table. "Because you're still so nervous that the tension you're giving off is almost suffocating me." He looked back up, watching as Sherlock's expression changed from irritation to actual understanding. "Sherlock, I will try, if you want me to, but... I don't want to hurt you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Then please... just don't pull away when I reach for you."

The food arrived then, and they tucked in. John watched as Sherlock picked at his food, finishing nearly half of it before he finally reached over and snagged several bites of John's chicken. John in turn speared a few shrimp on his fork, smiling as Sherlock chewed.

"It's quite good."

John nodded. "Hell, when we're out of Clouds, we should come back here anyway."

Sherlock watched him for a moment, curious and thoughtful and John suddenly felt like an experiment. "Would you like that?"

"What? Of course I would, I just said-"

"No no, I meant..." Sherlock pursed his lips. "You... you would like to come out to the country. With me?"

"You mean like on holiday?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you like."

John grinned. "Romantic weekend getaway?"

Sherlock's nose crinkled in disdain. "Don't push your luck."

"Flowers, chocolates, cozy little cottage just for-"

"Absolutely not."

"Get those horrible couples' photos that everyone-"

"NO."

John rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he tried not to laugh too much. "Fine, have it your way."

They were quiet for a moment.

"Would you like to see a dessert menu?"

John looked up at the hostess and shook his head. "No, I think we're good."

"Alright. Separate checks?"

"No, one check is fine, thank you."

John looked over at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. Sherlock smiled pleasantly at the hostess and ignored him.

"Alright, I'll be back in just a moment." She grabbed their plates with a smile.

John shook his head. "Sometimes you worry me, with how easily you can just turn that on and off."

Sherlock sighed. "One moment I'm not polite enough, the next I'm too polite?"

"Alright, point taken." John toyed with his napkin. "Thank you, by the way." He nodded at the now mostly empty table. "For lunch."

Sherlock smiled. "Isn't that what couples do?"

John nodded. "Yes, but-"

"Plus, it's easier this way, one check, less time for her to worry about fiddling with cards, and what if she drops them and doesn't remember which is which, so really, it's a matter of efficiency, John."

"Of course."

The check came, Sherlock quickly handed her his card before John could try to. Bill paid, slip signed, tip left, and they were out the door.

"John. I... I want to try."

John put his hands in his pockets, nodding slowly. "Alright, but.., if I... if I do anything, Sherlock,  _anything at all_ that makes you uncomfortable. You need to tell me immediately."

"Alright."

"And I reserve the right to stop us at any time if I feel you're not being honest about how comfortable you are with... everything."

Sherlock nodded. "So, tonight then?"

John swallowed, feeling very nervous. "Yeah. Tonight."


	35. Sherlock

It's been a long day, and Sherlock is trying not to think about it, because now all he wants to do is focus on John.

They'd left the restaurant, and devised a simple plan. They split up for about half an hour, John finding a small drug store in which to buy the lube, while Sherlock went to one of the other little convenience stores to buy condoms. This way, no one saw them enter the same store, and since they were each running low on things like shampoo and toothpaste, it wouldn't raise suspicion.

They'd met up again, carrying their separate parcels, and walked around the town a bit more before it was time to go back to Clouds House. The ride had been fine, almost seeming too fast.

They'd each had a small dinner, and John had excused himself to shower while Sherlock pulled out his notebook and jotted notes.

Now Sherlock is standing in the bathroom, staring down at the sink as he tells himself he can do this, tells himself that it will be fine, because he wants this; he wants it to be fine, needs it to be fine, needs to see and touch and feel John. John pressed against him, John kissing him, John touching and holding and fucking him, because it's been so long since he'd had any sort of intimate contact and he wants it so much it's almost painful, wants John in a way he's never wanted anything, not even the cocaine. Sherlock takes a deep breath and looks at himself in the mirror before opening the bathroom door.

He refuses to think about the past. There's a reason it's there, not here. He thinks about now, about the future. He thinks about John.

John is sprawled on his own bed, watching the door as it opens, watching Sherlock step out of the bathroom. His eyes rove over Sherlock. Clinical. Ever the doctor, my John.

"Alright, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks at John and lets his gaze linger as it draws up and down John's body - plain white t-shirt that's loose enough to be comfortable but still hugs tight across John's chest, John's shoulders. flannel pajama pants. Bare feet and bare arms and Sherlock want to touch every inch of him, touch and kiss and lick and memorize every cell that makes up John Watson.

"Of course." He walks over, trying not to rush, not to race, but feeling as though he's failing in that attempt. John pushes up to a more comfortable sitting position as Sherlock climbs onto the bed, crawling up and over until his knees are resting next to John's hips, sitting back and looking John in the eye before leaning in and kissing him, breathing in John's breath and scent and taste and oh but he's wanted, desired, needed this.

"Sherlock." John's voice is breathy against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock shivers involuntarily.

"John."

"What... what are you doing?"

"A rather poor job of seducing you, it seems."

John leans back a bit, one hand coming up to Sherlock's shoulder to hold him back. "Not that I don't love the idea of being seduced by you, Sherlock, but... are you... are you really ready for that? Honestly. Because..."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, of course I am."

"One hundred percent?"

Sherlock made a small, strangled sound in his throat. "This is certainly not how I had imagined this going." John smiled at him.

"I just... I need to know that you're ready for this, Sherlock. We had an agreement, and I know I said I'd try..." John looked away and Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing in and out and in and out and sitting back along John's thighs.

"John, I'm a broken, damaged, and delusional human being. The only higher power I've ever believed in before was myself." He opened his eyes and brought them back level with John's. "But I find I could abase myself at your feet for the rest of my life and be happy there. Cater to your every whim and indulge your every mood, and never once find myself bored with it all." John swallowed thickly. "And all I would want in return is you, every part of you, every inch of you, all to myself. Because despite my desperate desire to make you happy, I am still selfish, John."

And then Sherlock found himself flipped over onto his back, his head on the pillows where John's back had been leaning moments before. John was hovering over him, staring into his eyes, his breath coming hard and fast as he stared at him, and Sherlock just wanted him to say something, even if it was no, because right now the uncertainty of what John might be feeling was too much.

"Is that really what you want?"

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded because he didn't trust his voice to work. John watched him for a moment, then dipped down and kissed Sherlock, just a soft press of lips.

Then John was sitting back, his t-shirt off and landing somewhere across the room, his hands pulling at Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's hands joined John's and before hs knew it, his shirt was gone too. John sucked in a breath, and Sherlock closed his eyes, his face scrunched up in frustration.

"Sherlock..." John's voice was quiet as his fingertips traced over old scars. Sherlock knew they were everywhere - burns from cigarettes and cigars and whatever else had been on hand, lines crossing his abdomen and back and sides, gleaming whiter than the rest of his skin.

"I..."

"Sherlock, who did all this?"

"It's not-"

"Yes it is."

Sherlock swallowed and opened his eyes. "I told you that I... had impulse control issues." John nodded, his fingers still tracing the scars. "My impulses had... a price."

John looked up at Sherlock's eyes then, his expression horror mixed with amazement. "You... let them do this?"

Sherlock looked away. "You wouldn't understand, John, it's... complicated."

They were quiet for a moment, and John's fingers fell away. When Sherlock looked back at him, he almost couldn't stand what he saw. The horror was still there, but now there was pity, and fear, and so many emotions that Sherlock could not deal with right then.

"Please, John." John cocked his head but said nothing. "Please. I want this. I want you. I want to be able to forget, at least for a little while - I just want to lose myself in you."

He surges up, up, and pulls John down to meet him, his lips working feverishly against John's, urgent and wanting and reckless and glorious. John went willingly, and Sherlock decided to make a bolder move than he had thought he'd be capable of right then. He reached down and slipped John's flannel pajamas down, off his hips. John pulled back, looking at him, and Sherlock put every confidence he could into his expression. He could see it when John made up his mind, his own hand slipping down and pulling his pajamas off the rest of the way, his pants going with them, and he sat back, his eyes darting towards Sherlock's pajamas as well. Sherlock smiled and shifted up a bit, then slipped them off quickly.

John's eyes roamed over him, lingering in places that made Sherlock blush and smile and lick his lips as his own eyes took stock of the man in front of him.

"Tell me." John's voice is quiet, a soft tremor running through it. "Tell me what you want me to do."

Sherlock licks his lips and closes his eyes and he can't even make up his mind right now because he just wants John to do everything. "Touch me. Anywhere. Doesn't matter as long as you're touching me."

He keeps his eyes closed as John's hands smooth out over his chest, fingertips light and palms heavy, a constant tease, push and pull sensations that are the most affectionate caress he's ever experienced. "God, John."

"Sherlock, I..."

"Anything."

"I want to kiss you."

Sherlock opens his eyes, and watches as John leans forward and kisses him, lips moving to his chin, and further along his jaw to just below his ear and then down, down, along his neck and collar bone and Sherlock gasps.

"You alright?" John's voice is low and his lips tickle Sherlock's skin as he speaks and Sherlock takes a breath and tried to respond.

"Yes." He's breathless and he's so hard it hurts and then John's mouth is on his chest and his stomach, fingertips trailing over his sides and then his thighs and finally settling on his hips. Sherlock chances a look down and he sees John shift to lay overtop of him now, cheek stubbly and warm against the front of his hip.

"I don't... I don't know what I'm doing, Sherlock..."

"You're doing everything perfectly, John."

John smiled then, rubbing his cheek along Sherlock's skin and Sherlock felt like he might burst from wanting. "I... John I want... I..."

John grinned up at him. "Reduced you to a quivering mass already? Damn, I'm good."

Sherlock laughed, closing his eyes for just a moment then, blocking out images he doesn't want while he has John here, willing to try. "I want you. I want... everything." He opens his eyes and stares at John. "I want to feel your mouth on me and your hands on me and I want to know what you taste like, what you feel like as we move together." Sherlock felt his skin heat a bit more as he watched John now.

John's pupils were dilated, blown wide and almost terrifyingly beautiful against the minimal slivers of the irises. Sherlock wanted to see his eyes like that more often, wanted to be the one who made his eyes do that.

"Sherlock, I... "

Sherlock reached down, grabbing one of John's hands. I can do this. I want this. He doesn't know what I want, and I can't even say it, but I can show him. He takes John’s hand and places it around his cock, moving it slowly and deliberately.

"Touch me." His whisper is so soft he thinks John might not have heard him, but then John’s grip tightens just a bit, and he starts moving his hand a bit faster, thumb coming up to rub over the slit in Sherlock’s glans, and oh does Sherlock want this. His breath shudders out and his hips arch up into John’s hand ever so slightly and he moans and he fights the memories that are coming now, because that’s not John, this is John, right here with him.

"Sher-Sherlock... Christ you are... oh..."

Sherlock opens his eyes and watches John's face, watches as John's eyes travel up to meet his. John's biting his lip and smiling through it all and Sherlock doesn't know how to process that much adoration so he says nothing.

"Can I... I want to..." Sherlock looks down towards John's hips. "I want to touch you, I want to taste you."

John nods and stops what he's doing. "So... how..." He moved up to hover over Sherlock, leaning in and kissing him, hands running over his chest and stomach and arms.

Sherlock kissed him back, arms enveloping John and fingers carding through his hair and suddenly it wasn't John, wasn't now, and he could hear that voice in his ear, This is going to be a great game, Sherlock, you're going to love this part, and he stiffened.

"Sherlock?" John pulled back, staring at him, fear and concern mingling and swirling all over his expression. "Sherlock, what did I do? What's wrong?"

Sherlock opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

He started trembling. No, this can't be right, I was always in control of my reactions then, I should be in control now.

He takes a long, deep breath, closing his eyes, then opens them as a rush of cool air hits his body. He sees John is sitting back, hands on his own thighs, barely any of him touching Sherlock at all. "Sherlock?" HIs voice is soft, steady, relaxing. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

Sherlock sat up, still shaking, and pulled his knees up in front of him, arms going around them as he closed himself off. "Nothing. I'll be fine."

"Sherlock, we're not going-"

"Stop, John, please." Sherlock closed his eyes again. "Please, just... let me take a moment."

John said nothing, did not move, and Sherlock took several deep breaths in and out, trying to stop himself from having whatever this was.

"I'm sorry."

"What?" John sounded surprised. "Sorry? About what?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "This."

John reached out with his left hand, palm up, and Sherlock reached out to take it. "This is not your fault."

"I'm..." Sherlock looked down at their hands, then up at John. "I can't..." He yanked his hand away and was off the bed, moving away as John turned.

"Sherlock, just... calm down."

Sherlock stood there, naked and trembling, for what felt like hours. Then he turned and raced back into the bathroom, slamming the door a bit too hard.


	36. John

John kneels there, on his bed, for at least three full minutes before he finally climbs off and grabs his pajamas. He pulls the bottoms on and is just working his head through the top of his t-shirt when he hears it - the unmistakable sound of Sherlock, retching.

"Shit."

He goes to the door, picking up Sherlock's clothing along the way. He leans on the wall, waiting and listening, and cursing himself for being so stupid.

When it's quiet again, he taps gently at the door. "Sherlock? I've got your clothes... if you want them."

He waits for several moments, and is just about to knock again when Sherlock answers.

"I'm... I'm fine, just..."

"Sherlock, please, just... talk to me?"

John can feel it, the way his heart breaks over and over with each second of silence that stretches between them. It's different than the way it was when Sherlock tried to distance them, tried to make John hate him.

This one hurts much worse.

John purses his lips, takes a deep breath. "Sherlock? Are you still awake?"

"I'm fine."

"May I come in?"

There's no answer. John waits a minute, then slowly tries the door handle.

It's unlocked.

He reaches in just with the clothes. They're pulled from his fingers a second later, and he pulls the door closed again.

He hears the rustling of fabric, then the sink running, and leans back against the wall. He's fighting his base urges, to simply barge in and demand answers, or at least to barge in and just pull Sherlock close, tell him over and over again it's alright, it's fine, it's all fine.

The water turns off, the door stays closed, and John sighs. "Sherlock. Please." There's no response.

John frowns, then cautiously opens the door again. He peeks his head inside and sees Sherlock sitting on the floor just in front of the toilet, legs drawn up in front of him again and head between his knees. He's still trembling, but not nearly as bad as he was. John smells mint and soap, and sees a damp flannel cloth next to the sink.

He steps inside completely, staying near the door, trying to give Sherlock a bit of space.

He stands there, silent and patient. Sherlock does not acknowledge him, does not give any indication that he even cares that John is there.

John doesn't know how long he stands there. He doesn't care. He just had to know that Sherlock was alright - in the limited sense of the word that applied, at least. He leaned into the corner between the doorway and the sink, watching Sherlock, arms wrapped around his chest as he waited.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"I've always been able to keep myself distant." John swallowed and listened. "Divorce myself from feelings." Sherlock looked up, self-depreciating smile in place. "But you see?" He held out one hand. John watched it trembling. "Body's betraying me."

John can't say anything that will make this better right now. He knows that. But it doesn't mean he doesn't want to try. He swallows audibly and waits.

Sherlock gives a small, mirthless chuckle as he stares at his own hand. "Look at me. I'm afraid, John." He closes his eyes, twists his face away as though in pain. " _Afraid_."

He looks back at John then, and John has to hold himself still against the desperate need to fall in front of Sherlock and promise him anything so long as he never looks that miserable again. "Interesting, yes? Emotions?"

John sinks down to sit on the floor. He licks his lips and wants nothing more than to pull Sherlock into his arms and swear to keep him safe, keep him close, forever.

Sherlock looks back at him, eyes slightly wild. "The grease on the lens. The fly in the ointment."

"Alright." John reaches out, then quickly pulls his hand back when Sherlock flinches away, the maneuver so instinctive John wonders if he even knows he did it. "Look, you've been... pretty wired lately. You know you have. We both have."

Sherlock watches him, eyes narrowing in concentration.

"Maybe... we should just wait a bit longer. We just... got ourselves a bit worked up, and you-"

"Me? There's nothing wrong with  _me_."

John leaned his head back into the corner. "Sherlock, please, I just-"

" _There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand?_ "

John held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Coming in here was probably the worst idea he'd ever had, because now Sherlock was acting like a cornered animal, scared and hurt and ready to attack to keep himself from any more harm. John slouched a bit, breathing out quietly and slowly, trying to look less threatening.

Sherlock noticed, and glared at him. "You want me to prove it, yes?" His words were almost too fast to follow, his look daring John to deny it, and so John said nothing, just kept a steady gaze. "You want to know about the scars, yes? You want to know why I would let anyone do that? Why I would allow anyone that level of control over my own body? Simple. He had what I wanted, and I had what he wanted. All pain is temporary,  _Doctor_ , you should know that. What was a little pain compared to stillness in my mind and the ability to write without second guessing myself."

John wanted to look away. Wanted to leave the room. He didn't like this at all, but now he was here and he couldn't change that. All he could do was ride it out until Sherlock finished, until Sherlock was approachable again.

"I stopped caring what he did as long as he gave me what I needed. Physical violence a pale comparison to the constant onslaught of my mind, the never ending train of thought that won't stop, won't quiet, won't leave me in peace even for a moment." Sherlock was speaking through gritted teeth. "But with that solution, that seven-percent solution, I could relax, I could think clearly, and I could hear one song, not one thousand, and I could finally write what I wanted to play and play what I wanted to write and there was nothing getting in my way."

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "You want to know why I gave myself over to him?" Sherlock smiled ruefully. "Because I  _wanted to_." He straightened his neck and opened his eyes, looking at John.

John nodded. "Alright. But I don't believe that."

Sherlock sneered. "And why should I care if you believe me or not?"

John shrugged. "Because if I don't believe you, you can't possibly believe it yourself." Sherlock froze, trembling ceased by the rigid tension in him as his eyes widened at John's accusation. "I may not have known you for very long, Sherlock, but I think I know you pretty well, regardless."

John pushed up slowly, walking on his knees until he was in front of Sherlock now, but not touching.

"You hate yourself sometimes. Because you're not the emotionless, detached robot you want to be. You feel - deeply, in fact. You wouldn't be able to write and play your music if you didn't."

Sherlock shrank back just a bit, pulling himself tighter into a ball.

"You think, on some level, that you deserved all of that." John nodded at Sherlock's torso. "Because you're not what you think you should be."

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips.

"But let me tell you something, Sherlock." John leaned in a bit, one hand coming up to rest on Sherlock's hand. "I wouldn't want you any other way."

It was cheesy. John knew that. Too many RomComs, too many sappy love stories, whatever it was, the line was cheesy and clichéd.

But dammit, it was true.

John watched as Sherlock let it sink in. He could pinpoint the exact moment that Sherlock let go, trusting in John.

John pulled him close, sitting back and letting Sherlock climb into his lap. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, tighter and tighter, and ignored the sounds of crying, ignored the shaking and the mewling and said absolutely nothing else as he simply held Sherlock.


	37. Sherlock

Sherlock closed his eyes.

His breath was steadier now, John's arms were warm through his t-shirt, and the scent of John's clean hair, clean skin, were as calming as they were intoxicating.

John's voice was soft. "You want to move this out of the bathroom, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, his head brushing against John's. "Yes. I'm sorry, John..."

"It's fine, Sherlock." John's arms squeezed once, then fell away slowly as Sherlock went to unfold himself and stand.

He moaned slightly as he straightened, limbs stretching and protesting. "How long have we..." He looked at John as John stood up, also wincing.

"I have no idea." John shook his head. "But I'd wager it's been a fair while."

Sherlock sighed. "I... I shouldn't have..."

John held up a hand. "No. No blame-game, Sherlock. You thought you could handle... this." John gave him a small smile. "Let's just... go to sleep. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Will you... sleep next to me, still?"

John's smile widened into a grin. "If you want, yeah."

Sherlock nodded. "I would very much like that."

John held out his hand, and Sherlock took it immediately, feeling slightly better already.

They climbed into Sherlock's bed, John lying on his back and Sherlock curled against his side, their legs tangled together and arms around each other. Sherlock rested his head on John's chest and shoulder, listening to his heartbeat.

"John?"

"Mmm?" John's voice was sleepy and deep, and Sherlock felt his lips quirk at the sound.

"Thank-you. For... that. What you... did, what you offered to do, that was... good."

John chuckled, the sound vibrating his chest. "Sherlock, go to sleep."

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

When he woke back up, John was still there beneath his head, breath deep and slow. He was snoring softly, and Sherlock moved carefully, not wanting to wake him yet.

He washed his face and brushed his teeth, looking at himself in the mirror. He frowned, thinking.  _Why_  couldn't he just stop thinking about everything that had happened before? He'd been able to delete so many things from his memory - why couldn't he delete this?

When he stepped out of the bathroom again, he saw John had rolled over and was now holing the second pillow, his face rubbing against it slowly. Sherlock smirked, then grabbed his notebook.

He sat down at the window seat, looking out over the grounds. The sun had just come up, and he was watching the shadows moving across the grass as it began to rise higher and higher. He made a few notations, fingers ticking off notes every so often. He would close his eyes, hear the melody in his head, before scribbling something out and re-writing bits. He hummed just quietly enough so that John wouldn't hear him, shooting occasional glances John's way, just to make sure he wasn't waking up yet.

After most of an hour had passed, John began stirring. Sherlock put his notebook away, standing up and sliding onto the bed as John opened his eyes.

"Morning, Sherlock." John's voice was rough, and Sherlock closed his eyes as he sank down next to him, wrapping himself in John's limbs.

"Morning."

"How'd you sleep?" John was planting soft kisses on the top of Sherlock's head, and Sherlock buried his face against John's chest, inhaling deeply.

"Well enough. You?"

John laughed softly. "About the same, so..." John cleared his throat. "How are you?"

Sherlock frowned, even though John couldn't see him. "Fine."

"No, Sherlock, I meant... after last night. How are you?"

Sherlock pulled up a bit, looking into John's lidded eyes. "I'm..." He sighed. "I'm frustrated."

John's hand came up and brushed some of Sherlock's hair back from his face. "In what sense?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't be thick, John, you know perfectly well what I'm saying."

"Sherlock, if you mean that you're... embarrassed-"

"If I meant that I would have said that."

John licked his lips. "Alright, fine. You're not embarrassed. You're frustrated."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank-you."

"Just... stop being so bloody hard on yourself." John trailed his fingertips over Sherlock's cheek, his eyes staring intently into Sherlock's eyes. "I mean it."

Sherlock closed his eyes, losing himself in John's touch and John's voice and John's scent and everything that made John  _John_.

"Alright."

"Don't just say it, Sherlock. I need you to mean it."

Sherlock opened his eyes again at watched John. He cleared his throat gently. "Very well. I'll... try."

John gave him a half smile. "Good." He sighed, closing his eyes again. "It's Sunday, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded against the pillow. "Is... Harry coming today?"

"Yeah." John rubbed a hand over his face. "Christ, I don't even know what to tell her about... us."

"Why tell her anything?"

John giggled. "Because she's my sister - she'd find out the second she saw me, and at least this way she can't say I'm keeping anything from her." Sherlock hummed, noncommittal and soft, and John pulled him a bit closer. "And how about you? Mycroft joining you today?"

"Probably." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Never misses an opportunity to meddle, my brother dear."

"What d'you mean?"

"Much like your sister, he'll know something the moment he sees me. It's infuriating."

"I dunno, I always thought it was... kinda nice, really, being able to confide in someone. Even if we thought we hated each other some times."

Sherlock's nose crinkled. "We never... confided."

John's expression was an interesting cross between a smile and a frown. "Then what did you do?"

Sherlock gave him a half shrug. "Blackmail."

John's expression sobered. "You... you never... not even once?" Sherlock shook his head. "Wow, OK then."

They lay together in silence for several moments before finally Sherlock shifted up. "We should... get ready, I suppose."

John nodded. "Yeah."

They dressed quietly, watching each other most of the time. John would blush slightly as Sherlock's eyes roved over him, and Sherlock would look down as he allowed himself a small grin.

They walked down to breakfast, though neither was particularly hungry. They each had a slice of toast, eating quickly. Then they said their goodbyes until after visitation, and Sherlock watched John walk outside, to the table that Harry was no doubt sitting at, beaming and happy to see her brother.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to see Mycroft standing a few feet away. "Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes scanned him quickly, and he quirked an eyebrow. "My my, Sherlock, so soon?"

Sherlock felt his face heat and he glared. "Shut up." Then he turned and stalked towards the doors. He heard Mycroft behind him, gait unhurried.

"Perhaps what I am about to tell you is for the best, then, seeing as your... amorous intentions did not pan out as well as you'd hoped."

Sherlock said nothing, but he could hear his teeth grinding as Mycroft spoke. They walked out towards the gardens, Sherlock finding a bench and sitting down quickly, trying to stop his face from betraying his emotions.

"Alright, what is it?" Sherlock's voice was low, teeth still clenched. "You're unusually pleased with yourself right now, which means I'm probably not going to like where this is headed." He glanced at Mycroft, who gave him a look of smug satisfaction.

"Have you heard of Whitecross Halfway House, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and realization hit. "No."

"It's a lovely place-"

"No, Mycroft, please. Don't."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised. "Are you, in fact,  _asking_  me for something? Well this is certainly a change, I must say."

"Don't. Don't transfer me, Mycroft. You can't-"

"I assure you, as the one who is footing the bill for this, I can, and I have."

Sherlock's mouth hung open slightly as he stared at his brother, anger and hurt and utter disbelief all warring for control over his face and brain. "Why?"

Mycroft looked down at his hands, perched on the handle of his ever present umbrella. "The... incident, with Mr. Moriarty and Ms. Adler had me thinking that... perhaps your location was a bit too well known to the public."

"You said you took care of that."

"And so I have."

"By transferring me?"

"If I told you that this was in your best interests, would you believe me?"

"Mycroft-"

"Has it ever occurred to you, Sherlock, that you and I are on the same side?"

Sherlock glared. "Oddly enough,  _no_."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "And if I told you that your... Dr. Watson, would also be transferred, then how would you feel about it?"

Sherlock sat back for a moment, regarding Mycroft. "We're to be transferred together?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I cannot make that happen."

"Then I refuse-"

"Sherlock Holmes, listen to me." Mycroft was staring at him now, eyes boring into his. "If I were to transfer you both out of here at the same time, would it not perhaps raise suspicion? You two are practically joined at the hip as it is. The last thing I want the staff to realize is just how deeply... involved, you two are."

Sherlock's face flushed again. "Well, as you so  _kindly_ pointed out-"

"If you're already trying, Sherlock, it's only a matter of time. And you're not known for your subtlety."

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes and nodding. "How long?"

"I don't know yet. But for you, soon. I should think within the next two months."

"And... how long after, for John?"

Mycroft was silent a second too long, and Sherlock opened his eyes, a hand reaching out to grab Mycroft's arm. "Mycroft,  _how long_?"

"At least a month after you leave, Sherlock."

Sherlock released his brother, turning away and standing up quickly. His hands found his pockets, pulling his coat around his tighter, like his favorite blanket when he was a child, offering security and comfort.

"Is there nothing else you can do?" Sherlock congratulated himself when his voice didn't quaver. He kept his back turned until Mycroft finally spoke.

"You'll be allowed visitation. You can meet him either Saturday in the town they go to, or Sundays here at Clouds."

Sherlock turned back. "Not both, though."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, not both."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "Fine. But tell me when you know precisely when I am to be... transferred."

Mycroft gave one curt nod. "Of course." He stood up, facing Sherlock. "What will you tell John?"

Sherlock said nothing.


	38. John

Something was off. Something was very off.

John tried to say it was just a residual feeling from earlier, from last night, from the memories and the sensations and the failed attempt. But he'd be lying to himself, and he didn't want to do that.

"What's wrong?"

His voice was soft and low as he and Sherlock walked back to their room after dinner. Sherlock looked down at the floor as he walked.

"Nothing. It's only Mycroft... I told you, he... he knows how to get to me."

John nodded, not entirely believing him. "So he figured it out right away?"

Sherlock nodded. "We weren't even out of the building before he commented on it."

John winced. "Christ, even Harry took at least five minutes before she cuffed me on the head. So, did he warn you off, tell you to stay away from me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "No. He would hardly have given you his file on me if he meant to do that."

John could barely stand it. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm, stopping their walk. "Sherlock, whatever... whatever he said, you can tell me, you know that, right?"

He stared at Sherlock, wishing that he could read Sherlock the way Sherlock read everyone. His hand squeezed gently on Sherlock's bicep. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked... lost, John finally realized, and John swallowed and half dragged Sherlock back to their room. Once they were inside, he turned back to see Sherlock there, directly in front of him, hands coming up to pull him close and lips parting slightly.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock kissed him, letting his arms lock around Sherlock's waist and pull him close. Sherlock made a quiet sound, the vibrations slipping between them and onto John's lips. He shuddered slightly, arms clenching.

Sherlock only intensified the kiss then, pushing him back to the bed until they toppled onto it. John gasped and opened his eyes, staring into Sherlock's own.

"Sherlock, please." John brought a hand up to Sherlock's cheek. "Jesus, just... tell me what's wrong, Mycroft never bothers you this much, tell me what he said."

Sherlock watched John for a moment. "He... he just told me that if I wasn't careful - if  _we_  weren't careful - then people would notice. We'd be separated." Sherlock closed his eyes, moving to lay down next to John. "I've been more careless than I should be."

John frowned. "No, we've... we've been very careful, Sherlock, we don't act any differently in front of everyone now than we did before all of this between us."

"And that is precisely the point, John." Sherlock opened his eyes and John felt helpless against the pain, the frustration, that he saw there. "John, since we met we've acted more or less as though we were a couple. You can't have missed it."

John swallowed and nodded. He remembered everyone's comments when Sherlock had tried to stop this whole thing, how they had looked at him as though he'd just been dumped by a lover instead of dismissed by a friend.

"I suppose that's true." He gave Sherlock a half-smile.

"We've never once behaved as though we were  _just roommates_ , John."

"We've never been  _just roommates_ , Sherlock. You were always... more." John reached up and placed a hand against Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, I'm not... I'm not you, I don't see  _everything_  the way you do, but I do know there's something bothering you, and it's not... this, not what you're talking about."

Sherlock sighed. "John-"

"You know, when we got in here, I thought you might get angry, get... frustrated or annoyed and just brush me off. Tell me I was being ridiculous." John shifted, moving to sit up. "But you kissed me. You kissed me like... like you were afraid you might never kiss me again."

Sherlock stared at him, and John wondered for a moment if he'd pushed too far, if he was reading to much into it. But the way Sherlock was looking at him now, he knew he was right, he knew it wasn't just Mycroft figuring things out.

"Are..." John took a breath, steeling his nerves. "Are you-"

"I'm being transferred to Whitecross Halfway House." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"You're... you're being transferred?" John felt his heart stuttering in his chest. "Oh... oh god, you... transferred, oh-"

"Not... not right away." Sherlock's voice was soft and broken. "Mycroft expects it will be soon, though. Within the next two months."

"Why... why would you lie to me about this, Sherlock?" Anger and confusion were warring in him, coming through in his inflection. "Why wouldn't you tell me this right away, for fuck's sake, Sherlock, this... this isn't just going to affect  _you_."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he glared, going on the defensive. "You think  _I_  didn't realize that?  _Me_?  _I_ didn't realize?" He stood up, pacing between the beds. "I didn't  _want_  this, John, I didn't want to leave, didn't ask to be transferred. Mycroft... he thinks he knows what's best and there's just no talking him out of it, once he's set his mind to it." Sherlock stopped, whirling back to face John again. "I  _begged_  him, John. I  _begged_  my brother to stop this, to change his mind, to let me stay."

John stood up, walking towards Sherlock slowly with arms outstretched, placating. "Alright, alright-"

"But he won't. He gave me one small... consolation."

John stopped a foot away from him, hands lowering slowly. "And what was that?"

Sherlock inhaled through his nose, calming himself a bit. "You're to be transferred too. Not... right away. But sometime thereafter. And... we'll have weekly visits, either on Saturdays down in the town, or Sundays here."

John nodded slowly. "Oh."

"It was the best he could give me." Sherlock's voice was pleading, desperate, and he stepped into John's space, grabbing his hands and bringing them up to his chest, holding them close and tight. "Please, John... tell me this will work."

John looked up at him, shocked. "What?"

"Tell me... tell me you'll wait for me, you won't... you won't send me away when I come to visit, you won't cast me out of your life when I'm... please..."

John frowned. "Sherlock, why... why would I do that, why would I stop wanting to be with you just because...  _Christ_  but you can be thick for such a genius, you know that?" And John stretched up, his lips finding Sherlock's as he spoke between kisses. "Sherlock... I think we can... manage for a bit... it's not forever..."

Sherlock let go of his hands then, wrapping his arms around John's shoulders. "John..."

John chuckled, pulling away and shaking his head. "How do you still think... after  _everything_ , Sherlock... that I'm just going to walk away and forget all about you? That I wouldn't do what I needed to do to make this work while you were gone?"John started giggling then, which made Sherlock's nose crinkle in frustration and confusion, which only made John laugh even harder.

John moved back and sat back down on the bed, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

After a moment he felt the bed dip, felt the slight warmth of Sherlock's body, even through their clothes. He turned over his hand, and Sherlock's fingers slipped in between his own.

They were quiet a moment, then John spoke. "Sometimes I still... think you're going to push me away again. I thought that tonight, Sherlock." He stared at the floor.

"Why..."

"Something was bothering you. And... you lied to me about what it was. You told me eventually, but... that's just it, I had to persuade you, and..." He sighed.

"Why would I be ending things, though."

John looked over at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised. "To be honest, I thought... maybe it was because of last night."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Oh. Right."

John moved his fingertips around the knuckles on Sherlock's hand. "Last night was... a disaster, I know, and... I thought you might have started to associate me with... unpleasant memories."

Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips. "Truthfully, I had not considered that." He let out a sounds that was half growl, half sigh, and all frustration. "I seem to be developing a habit of doing that, with regards to... you. Us. This."

John squeezed his hand. "Alright, so... you don't want to end this, right?"

"Obviously."

John chuckled. "And you're transferring to... Whitecross?"

Sherlock nodded again. "Within two months, according to Mycroft."

John let out a breath. "Alright then. That's... that's manageable." John turned to face Sherlock directly. "Transfers are... pretty small, on the scale of obstacles we'll face, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked down at his lap. "At the moment, it feels mountainous."

"Well." John looked down at the bed spread, then back up at Sherlock. "We'll just have to do this one day at a time. Now, let's get ready for bed. I'm knackered."

"I think..." Sherlock looked over at his violin case. "I might play for a while."

John smiled. "I'd like that, Sherlock." And he hoped that one day at a time wouldn't be too much for them to handle.


	39. Sherlock

"They've opened the nature trail."

Sherlock looked up over his toast and newspaper. "Hmm? What was that?"

John gave him a small smile. "The nature trail? Well, trails really. They've opened them up."

Sherlock frowned. "And... this is relevant to my interests how?"

John sighed, and Sherlock wondered if he was going to make John sound like that for the rest of their lives. It was a double-edged sword, that idea.

"I thought it might be nice, get out for a while, pretty private, really. We could... talk."

Sherlock swallowed. "About?"

It was John's turn to frown. "About the last few days, Sherlock. About... just, about the last few days." John blinked and looked away.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "I see. That could be... good."

John looked back up at him. "Good. So, after breakfast?"

Sherlock shrugged. "As you like." He heard John snort, and grinned at his paper.

After breakfast, they headed back to their room. John put on a comfortable pair of jeans and some old trainers, while Sherlock simply waited.

"You don't want to..." Sherlock looked over at John who was gesturing at his suit. "I dunno, maybe you should change..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. It's not as though we're hiking a mountain, John. It's a walk, along a well worn trail, through the woods."

John nodded. "Alright. I just thought... you might be more comfortable." He shrugged, walking to the door. "Ready?"

Sherlock swept out the door without answering, striding down the hall. A moment later John was at his side.

"We have to go check in, or... check out, or something." John was babbling - he was nervous, which was surprising. "They have to know who's on the trails, I suppose in case anything happens..."

"Alright." Sherlock glanced over at John. "Are..." Sherlock licked his lips and took a deep breath. "Are you alright?"

"What?" John looked over at him in surprise. "Oh, yeah, fine. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No reason, really, you just... you sounded... off."

"Off?" John was chuckling. It was a welcome sound, and Sherlock allowed himself a small smirk. "I'm just... we'll talk, yeah? When we're out on the trails."

Sherlock nodded and said nothing.

John took the lead, and led him to the front office. The receptionist smiled and made a few quick notes, tapping a few keys on her computer, telling them they were all set and to have a good time on the trails and be careful. John chatted with her easily while Sherlock stood behind him, observing and smiling at appropriate intervals.

Then they were off and out the doors, heading towards the wooded area at the edges of the lawn.

The trail head was clearly marked, a large, bright white sign signaling them to begin here, and John again took the lead. Sherlock thought it interesting - perhaps a bit of his military training taking over? Probably.

The trees are... well, they're trees, and Sherlock doesn't know much about them at all, but he admits that the way the sunlight hits the leaves and filters through is rather lovely, and it's quiet and mostly private and John is standing there in front of him, hands behind his back as he looks around and walks casually.

And Sherlock decides that he's going to use this to his advantage. After all, if he's going to end up transferred to a different center soon, he's going to do everything he can to make things happen now, while he can.

He strides up to John, who turns and grins at him for a second before his expression falls. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock says nothing, just reaches out and pulls John to him, pulls him in and kisses him. It's desperate and longing and Sherlock hopes John will understand, he needs John to understand.

John's fingers are in his hair now and John's making small, possessive sounds as he kisses Sherlock back and Sherlock lets his hands wander over John's backside, lets his hands slip under John's t-shirt and play along the top edge of John's jeans.

"Sherlock." John's voice is soft and out of breath and Sherlock opens his eyes to look at him. John's lips are pink and slightly swollen and his pupils are so wide Sherlock would swear he could swim in them.

"Please."

"Sherlock, what... what are you trying to do?"

Sherlock swallowed, taking a long breath in through his nose. "I... I thought maybe a change of... scenery. It might make this..." He brought one hand back to the front of John's jeans, a finger slipping in and popping the button open. John's eyes widened but he said nothing, waiting for Sherlock to finish. "It might make this easier. For me."

Sherlock started moving his fingers again, trying to work John's zipper open, when a hand grabbed his wrist.

"No, Sherlock...  _Christ_ , no, we... we can't..."

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, frowning. "Why not?"

John closed his eyes, blowing out a long breath. "Because... dammit, Sherlock, you had a massive panic attack the last time we tried that."

"A change of venue can be monumental in helping someone work through a particularly traumatic event." Sherlock inched his finger along, and while John's hands stayed firm on his wrist, Sherlock felt his arm moving with Sherlock's.

"You're not a psychologist, Sherlock, and I don't think this is a good idea."

"Are you saying you don't want to?" Sherlock's finger was brushing against John's cock now, and he smirked at John. "Because all the evidence is stating otherwise."

"Truthfully?" John licked his lips. "I want this so much it hurts, Sherlock, physically hurts when I think about it."

"So-"

"Because I can't do it, Sherlock." John stares at him, pleading and begging. "I can't make you feel that... I can't put you through that..."

"What if... this could be an experiment."

John frowned. "What?"

"I just want to try... please, will you let me try just... just one thing, to start with."

John narrows his eyes. "What do you want to try?"

Sherlock swallows, then glances around. "Let's... get a bit further into the trees. They won't hide us completely but they'll offer... something."

John takes a deep breath, then nods, and Sherlock's finger retracts from his trousers. Sherlock glances about again, making sure they're alone, then leads the way.

He hears John just behind him, can feel him there like the weight of the world, the universe, the entirety of existence. And yet, it's so light he wonders if he might still somehow float away, fly to the sun, become Icarus...

 _No, stop that_ , he thought. That was not a good direction for his mind to wander.

When they'd gone about twenty feet in, Sherlock stops, turning back to John, who's a little breathless as he stands there.

"Here." Sherlock spots a rather large, wide tree. "Lean against this one, just here... We shouldn't be easily spotted this way."

"Sherlock..." John let himself be maneuvered until his back was against the tree. He looked up into Sherlock's face. "What... what are you going to do?"

Sherlock swallowed. "I told you. I want to try... an experiment." And then his hands were on John's waist, fingers finding the zipper again and tugging it down as John gasped.

"Sherlock,  _Jesus Christ_ , what..."

"Put your hands back... along the tree." Sherlock grabbed John's arms, pushing them back from his sides, so that his palms were against the tree trunk. "I think... Just, tell me, if you need to move your arms..."

"This is, Sherlock, this..." John's protests died as he suddenly sucked in a deep breath. Sherlock had worked his trousers down a bit, and his hands were grasping inside John's pants now. Long fingers gripped him just tightly enough.

"Interesting." Sherlock closed his eyes as he lightly stroked John, fingers curling around him. Soft skin over a rigid appendage - such a wonderful contradiction.

"You're... you're going to do what... exactly?" John's breath was short and fast and his stomach was twitching slightly with every pull of Sherlock's fingers.

"What I wanted to do the other night." Sherlock looked back into John's eyes. "Keep your hands on the tree. Please, will you do this for me?"

John stared at him for a moment then nodded.

"Good."

Then Sherlock crouched down and leaned forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, I apologize. Last week was CRAZY here at Casa de Ricechex. Sunday and Monday last week, I went to see both screenings of Frankenstein, with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller. They were PHENOMENAL and to be honest I can pretty much only sit here sobbing over the perfection they brought to the show. The entire cast was amazing, but let's face it, Ben and Jonny were the main attractions and they REALLY stood out. However, the screenings were in the capitol city, which is a good 2-3 hours away from me, so I spent those 2 days doing a lot of driving and watching. There was sushi both nights, though, so that helped.
> 
> Add in the fact that last week was the last week of school for The Consulting 5-year-old (and I was one of the party planners/chaperones in her Kindergarten class), and I was just so busy most days I pretty much sat down and did my best not to fall into a sleep-coma.
> 
> But, to help make it up to you, I give you: A Bonus Chapter! There will be a bonus chapter next week, too. And hopefully, next week I'll be back to my normal posting schedule!
> 
> Until then, cheers my darlings!


	40. John

As far as blowjobs went, John could think of worse places and times for one.

Oh, not at the moment, of course. No, at this precise moment his brain was running on as little blood as possible. Instinct had mostly taken over, and it was all he could do to remember to keep his hands against the tree while Sherlock's mouth slid slowly over him.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and inhaled. He suddenly didn't remember the last time he'd taken a breath, and he couldn't be sure if he was lightheaded because of a lack of oxygen, or something else entirely.

He opened his eyes and chanced a glance down, only to have to close his eyes again.

" _Jesus, buggering fuck_ , Sherlock." He heard and felt Sherlock chuckle, and the sensation threw his head back painfully into the tree trunk. "Shit."

"John?"

"I'm... fine... Christ, I'm just... I'm fine." He took another chance and looked down, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Are you..."

Sherlock grinned. "Not surprisingly, this is... far easier, for me. At the moment."

John nodded. "Alright... so-" John gasped again as Sherlock leaned in, mouth parting and  _oh_ , but that was sinful, just the feeling of his lips, so soft and thin, gliding along...

John closed his eyes again and gently leaned his head back. His arms were starting to feel heavy, shoulders aching with the effort to not move from their unnatural position, but John pushed that out of his head. Sherlock wanted his hands there and he was bloody well going to keep them right. There.

John felt Sherlock hum, felt his tongue sliding along the under-  _oh oh oh_ , John shuddered as his hips tried to move forward a bit, which was difficult seeing as he was flush against the tree with his arms awkwardly gripping the tree, fingertips digging into the harsh as he panted and tried not to sound more ridiculous than strictly necessary.

"Sh-Sher-Sherlock, I... I didn't...  _oh fuck_ , I don't have..."

She felt Sherlock's mouth slide off of him and it was like a sudden ache, the cooler air taking the place of his mouth and John cringed a bit.

"I know. I'll... I'll worry about that later just..." And then there his mouth was again, tongue working against him and a slight suction, just the right amount of pressure. John bit his lower lip and made pathetic whimpering sounds, looking down again.

He saw Sherlock's eyes, looking up at him, mouth and one hand wrapped around him as he moved slowly and perfectly and it was most definitely the hottest thing John had ever seen, ever had done to him. He watched Sherlock and Sherlock watched him and he tried to remember not to get too loud, because anyone might be out, walking the trail.

The idea of being caught sent an extra thrill through him, and he felt his whole body twitch slightly at the entire scene.

The skin around Sherlock's eyes crinkled slightly, like he was smiling. Maybe he'd realized what John was thinking, it wouldn't have been a surprise at this point.

John was about to lean back, close his eyes again and just revel in this entire moment, when he felt Sherlock pull back.

"No, John..." John looked back down, saw Sherlock looking at him almost frantically. Sherlock took several deep breaths. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock's hand moved slowly as he spoke. "Please..." His words from earlier echoed in John's ears, softer this time. "Will you do this for me?"

John nodded, not entirely sure if he could speak, and Sherlock nodded, his eyes locked with John's as he moved forward and opened his mouth again.

"Fffff...fu-Sher...  _oh_ , I'm... I'm..." John bit his lip hard, tasting blood and not caring as he watched Sherlock, who was working a bit faster as John's body began spasming. "Sherlock... Sh..."

He threw his head back, felt his toes curling... and still Sherlock's mouth was there, and John would have to say something, get offended that they hadn't had a condom or anything at all for this, but then, he hadn't been expecting this. He'd walked out here thinking they'd talk, literally talk, and then...

His hips bucked one more time, and then Sherlock pulled off of him, back of his hand wiping at his mouth as he stood up and John was certain he was going cross eyed, or that the world was tilting.

"I'm... gonna move my hands now."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. John groaned as his brought his arms forward, right hand coming up stiffly to rub at his left shoulder, the gunshot wound throbbing furiously.

Sherlock's hands worked quickly, fixing John's pants and trousers as best he could.

"So... tell me again... just what sort of, ah, experiment was... this?"

Sherlock licked his lips, rubbing them together for a moment before answering. "A change of scenery can help... overcome bad experiences. Just the simple nuance of a different location can have a great impact on the human psyche."

John frowned. "So... you can't..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "You can't have sex in a... bedroom, because of bad memories? But the middle of a forest is... fine?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you didn't find it at all... stimulating?"

"Well..."

"And were you more concerned with me having another... moment of panic, or were you worried we'd be caught?"

"I... oh..."

Sherlock smirked. "Your reaction in the bedroom was concern, fear, and even pity when you saw my scars. You felt the need to protect me from past events, but since you are obviously unable to go back in time, your subconscious instead tried to have you protect me from yourself right then, which triggered a negative reaction in my own subconscious, and the effect looped continuously until I stopped it by leaving."

John pursed his lips. "Right... of course..."

Sherlock sighed. "You were uncomfortable, which made me uncomfortable, which made you - do you see where this is going?"

John glared at him. "Aren't we supposed to be, I dunno, cuddling and whispering sweet nothings?"

Sherlock snorted. "If you were after any of the traditional relationship trappings, you certainly wouldn't be pursuing  _me._ "

John chuckled. "Well, that's true." He straightened his jeans a bit, settling them on his hips. "So, are we considering this... a success then?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think it's safe to say I was successful in my endeavors." He watched John out of the corner of his eye. "Would you disagree?"

"Fairly certain I wouldn't have any sort of basis for disagreeing."

"True." Sherlock sounded as though he might start laughing. "But it might be interesting to see you  _try_  to argue with me."

John shook his head. "Ah, no. Not this time." He looked back towards the trail. "Should we, uh... get back out there?"

"Probably."

"So... why aren't we?"

Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. "Perhaps because in this moment, I feel as though we're just two  _people_ , instead of two  _addicts_." He squeezed John's hand. "And it feels good."

John swallowed, shifting closer. "It does feel good, out here. It's... different." John looked up, into the leaves above them.

"I love London."

John looked over at Sherlock, listening intently.

" But I think... one day, perhaps... I'd like to retire to the country." Sherlock looked back at John. "I could play my violin whenever I wanted to, instead of when I have to, and I could study whatever I wanted to study without worrying about rehearsals and concerts and... publicity." Sherlock sneered at the last word.

"What would you study?" John found himself imagining it all, even imagining himself there. He wondered if he was being presumptuous.

Sherlock thought for a second. "Bees."

John startled slightly. "Bees?"

Sherlock nodded, looking very serious. "Yes, bees. They're fascinating creatures, John. Just think, at one time scientists believed they shouldn't be able to fly. Imagine what I might discover, if given the chance."

John smiled fondly. "I would really... I'd like to see you get that chance, Sherlock."


	41. Sherlock

Tai Chi was usually good for relaxing.

 _Usually_ being the key word today.

Sherlock was tense, frustrated, and in no way focused on anything in the gymnasium. His phone, which was currently sitting in his small locker in the changing room, loomed over his head like the Sword of Damocles.

 _Leave it to Mycroft_ , he thought bitterly, _to be able to spoil the best of times_.

Things were going well overall, if he actually thought about it. The withdrawals were fading, he felt better than he'd felt in years, and he was nearly one hundred percent certain that he was, in fact, in love - no matter how odd and unfamiliar the sensation was.

So when he'd received a text from Mycroft earlier saying that he needed to call him that evening, Sherlock had immediately felt as though an ocean of ice water had flooded his veins. He'd showed it to John, who'd smiled in a not-entirely comforting manner, and told him that he might be worrying for nothing.

"No, it'll be about my... transfer." He'd closed his eyes, felt the word drop into his stomach like a lead weight.

"You may be right, of course." John's voice had gone soft, and a little sad, but he'd smiled again when Sherlock looked at him and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "But, remember - it's only for a little while. And we'll have visits in between. It'll be fine."

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes, studying John's face. "You don't believe that."

John sighed. "For once, I can honestly say you are so very, very wrong, Sherlock." John sat down on his bed, hands on his knees as he looked up at Sherlock. "I'm going to miss you, mad man though you are. I'm going to be lonely, even after they give me a new roommate, because... well, they won't be you. There's really no one else quite like you." John smirked slightly. "And I'm going to miss your music."

Sherlock stepped back and sat on his own bed, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and hands flat together, fingertips just under his nose. "I wasn't expecting this already."

"I know."

"He said two months. It's been less than a week."

"It's  _fine_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock was silent for several moments, staring at nothing. His reverie was broken when he felt John's lips on his, soft and chaste and quick. He blinked, eyes darting to see John grinning at him.

"Stop worrying, Sherlock. We'll be alright."

Sherlock swallowed. "I spent nearly thirty-five years of my life not knowing you." John quirked an eyebrow at him but waited. "And in a matter of months... it feels as though there's never been a time when you weren't there. It's impossible, obviously, but that's... how it feels."

John ducked his head, but Sherlock could see the tips of his ears turn bright red. "You... don't you have Tai Chi to go to?"

"Must I?"

John shrugged slightly, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Probably. Besides, it... should be a good distraction."

Sherlock grimaced. "Of course." He reached out, touching John's cheek lightly. "I'll be back in an hour."

John smiled up at him. "I know. I'll be here."

Sherlock nodded, leaning in for another swift and slightly awkward brush of lips. Then he was off, out of their room and down to the gym.

And now, here he was, trying to remember that this was meant for relaxation, the movements designed for evasion and deflection, when all he wanted to do was punch something repeatedly. An hour passes like a week before he's finally out of the gym and headed back to his room, his phone in hand. He's shaking - he can feel it everywhere, like a live current jumping through his every nerve and burning his synapses.

He bursts into the bedroom, a moment of panic rising in his chest when he doesn't see John. He closes his eyes, and then he hears it - the shower's running.

Sherlock looks at his phone, then at the bathroom door. He plugs his phone into the charger, strips out of his clothes, and opens the bathroom door quietly.

The mirror has only just started to fog, which means John hasn't been in here long. Perfect.

"Sherlock? That you?" John chuckles from the shower, obscured behind the decorative yet functional glass door. "Christ, if you're with housekeeping, gimme a minute, I beg you."

"It's me."

John laughs again. "I was almost certain of that. You alright?"

Sherlock is silent for a moment, closing his eyes and thinking back, remembering the scent of the underbrush around them and the warmth of John in his hands and the sound of John's hands gripping the tree...

"Sherlock?" The door slid open a crack. "Sherlock, are you..." John trailed off as he opened his eyes, squinting to keep the water out of them. "Oh..." John licked his lips, then stepped back. Sherlock strode forward and pushed the door open, just enough for him to step into the shower. It closed behind him with a gentle thump.

He stood in front of John, watching him as the water pelted his back, his shoulders, even the back of his head a bit. John stared up at him. Their breaths were heavy and loud, and Sherlock felt a slight tremor ripple through him as stray water droplets hit his skin, too cool for comfort despite the steam and heat in the room.

"May I..." He stared at John for several seconds before stepping forward, arms going around him and pulling him closer. Lips met, parted, and Sherlock sighed, moaned, reached out for the wall and braced himself, turning them just enough so that the water stopped beating him in the face and instead was hitting his neck. John's hands were everywhere; one moment he had his left tangled in Sherlock's hair, his right gripping Sherlock's waist, and then they were both running up and down his back, desperate, and then one was against Sherlock's cheek and the other was at his shoulder. The water was warm, John was scorching, and Sherlock was dizzy with it all.

"John, I want..."

"God, Sherlock."

"I want to..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

John moaned, pulling back just a bit and licking his lips. "Tell me what to do."

Sherlock swallowed, his tongue darting between his lips slowly. "Alright." He looked down at the shower floor - it looked clean enough, and it wasn't as though They'd be licking it, or even laying on it...

"Grab one of the spare towels."

John nodded, opening the shower door again. He stepped out quickly, ducking back in with a large towel in his hands. He looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Fold it up. And... kneel on it."

John quirked one eyebrow, a small smile on his lips. He did as Sherlock had asked, finally kneeling in front of him. Sherlock looked down and wondered if John had enjoyed this view, if it had been a turn on, if he'd thought Sherlock was something worth looking at, because the image Sherlock had of John now, on his knees and looking up at him, hair wet and slightly spiky from being washed was something Sherlock would never, ever delete from his memory.

"Anything I..." John took one large, deep breath, looking back up at Sherlock and there's a small drop of water hanging off of his eyelashes, and Sherlock licks his lips again and breathes.

"No teeth."

John nods. "Anything else?"

"If you... use your hand, it's... easier."

John's hand comes up, fingertips trailing lightly over Sherlock's thigh, his hip, warm and wet and Sherlock gently leans his head back, closing his eyes as John's hand wraps around him. He takes in a deep breath, surprise and more than a little anticipation buzzing about in his brain. He's so hard it hurts, and just then, he feels John place a soft, gentle kiss-

"Oooh, oh... ooooooh." Sherlock shudders and feels John's lips drag back over him, hand working with his mouth, a little clumsy and unsure but... amazing, nonetheless.

"That... was a good sound, right?" John sounds like he's trying not laugh, and Sherlock knows it's nerves and desire and so many things that are swimming 'round in John's head like they are in his.

"It was a... very good sound."

"Good."

Sherlock looks back down and watches and  _oh yes_  but this must have been a lovely sight for John, even if Sherlock was not particularly lovely, just the sight of someone's mouth sliding over him, the way John's cheeks are hollowing as he-

"J-j-joooohn..."

John picks up speed now, movements a bit more confident. Sherlock places one hand behind himself, bracing against the wall. His other hand automatically reaches down, finds the top of John's head.

John freezes.

Sherlock is confused for about three seconds, then yanks his hand away again.

"I'm sorry, I... I'm... John, I..."

John pulls back, mouth sliding off. His hand stays, though. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock nods quickly. "I shouldn't have, I..."He glances at his hand and back at John, looking at his hair. "I'll..."

"No, it's... it's fine, um, as long as, you know..."

Sherlock's eyebrows rise. "I won't. I won't push you."

John swallows and nods. "I trust you."

And then his mouth finds Sherlock again, and Sherlock's hand finds John's hair again.

Sherlock bites his lips and tries to think straight.


	42. John

John would be the first to admit he really had no idea what he was doing. But he remembered a little bit of what Sherlock had done - the way Sherlock had twisted his hand each time, the way Sherlock's cheeks had drawn in, the way he'd...

John closed his eyes for a second, slowing down. Christ, just thinking about it had him aching and desperate and wondering just how much time they had until the hot water ran out, because he just wanted to stay here, right here, and explore Sherlock entirely.

He wanted to trace every scar with his tongue, nibble at Sherlock's smooth arms, run his palms and fingertips over Sherlock's back, his shoulders, his arse...

"John, oh... John..."

Christ Almighty. That voice should be illegal, the way it sounded right now, almost broken as it said his name.

"Oh, god, oh... yes, yes, John..."

John could feel it, right there, Sherlock was so close. He was tempted to just let it all happen like it had the other day in the woods, but the doctor in him was coming out and he could already taste it, and dammit why hadn't Sherlock brought a condom in with him?

John pulled away. "I... I can't... do... I..." He looked down, his hand still working in place of his mouth, a silent plea for understanding. "Sherlock, we..."

"It's... fine..." Sherlock's body was shaking almost violently. "Just... don't stop that... please."

John smiled, looking back up and working his hand faster, longer, more more more...

Sherlock bit his lip and threw his head back, toes curling as he tried to stay upright as he came undone under John's hand.

It was the most incredible feeling, to see that, and to know it was him, John, who had brought Sherlock to that point.

He let go, wiping his hands together in the spray of water. He started getting to his feet, finding himself a little wobbly and sore in the knees. "Christ, what good did the towel do me, my knees feel like someone took a hammer to them..."

Sherlock was now leaning back on his arms, keeping his back off the wall, his eyes partially closed and a small, content smile on his lips. "It provided enough padding to keep you from going entirely numb below the knees, so..."

"Ah." John picked it, moving it aside. He grabbed a washcloth, wetting it thoroughly, and set to work cleaning Sherlock off, carefully, lovingly. Sherlock stood very still as he did so.

John was rinsing it off when Sherlock spoke again. "That... is, uh, the first time anyone's... done that." John looked over, and Sherlock nodded at the washcloth.

John frowned at him. "What? Seriously?" Sherlock nodded. " You've never had... really, no one else ever cleaned you up, after..."

Sherlock chuckled. "You can phrase it however many different ways you wish to, John, the truth remains unchanged."

John watched him for a moment, then grinned. "In that case, I want to wash your hair."

Sherlock frowned. "You... what?"

"Your hair." John nodded at the mess of sweat and curls. "I want to wash it for you."

Sherlock's nose crinkled, like he'd just smelled something untoward. "I don't see how that's-"

"It's not. I just..." John shrugged. "I just want to."

Sherlock stared at him, then nodded and straightened up. "Alright then."

He stepped under the water, his head tilting back and his hands coming up, fingers running through it and John had to shake himself a little, remind himself that he was supposed to be doing something  _other_  than staring at the way Sherlock's body moved when he stretched...

Right. Shampoo.

John turned around, seeing the rather expensive looking bottle that he knew for a fact hadn't arrived in his suitcase. He squeezed just a bit out, working up a small lather in his hands before turning back to Sherlock, who had his back to him now, waiting.

John reached up, fingers massaging at Sherlock's scalp, and began to work the shampoo through the soft strands.

As he works, he hears Sherlock letting out soft, nearly inaudible moans and sighs, and John smiles to himself. He works his finger through every curl, finger combing them out and then working his fingertips in circles along Sherlock's scalp.

He lets his fingers work down to Sherlock's neck, massaging down into his shoulders.

"Oooh, oh... John..."

John laughed softly. "Good to know I can reduce you to a quivering mess even after you've come."

"That... that feels... oh..."

"You've... you've never had anyone do this, have you?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Never."

"Why?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I..." He sighed. "I never trusted anyone to."

"Trusted anyone... what? To shampoo your hair?"

John could hear Sherlock swallow, hear his shaky breath. "To... I never trusted anyone to  _just_ shampoo my hair."

John's mouth opened into a little, "Oh," and his hands stilled a moment. "You... oh, god, Sherlock, I..." John hung his head. "I should have known, should have remembered. You told me, and I... and then I just asked you, and..."

"It's fine, John."

John started moving his hands again, thumbs working down along Sherlock's spine, over scar tissue and perfect skin and John still wanted to lean forward and trail his tongue along every inch of it, let his hands map out every single ridge and dip.

John let his hands fall away. "Alright, I... think you should... probably rinse that out now."

Sherlock turned, his eyes closed and his hands coming back up to scrub at his hair, and John couldn't help himself.

He stepped up, his hands reaching around Sherlock, water rinsing the suds off his fingers. He grabbed Sherlock's hips gently, his fingers dragging along the skin as he moved them across Sherlock's stomach, up to his chest.

John leaned forward, his tongue darting out, trailing along one long, smooth scar.

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He didn't move.

John pulled back enough to find another scar, licking his way along, finger tracing idle patterns against Sherlock's skin as they moved.

He kept licking and kissing his way around Sherlock's torso, fingers and palms learning the feel of it all, when he felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders, felt himself pulled forward. He looked up in time to close his eyes as Sherlock kissed him.

They stood there for several moments before Sherlock pulled away. "We should... probably get out..."

John nodded. "Yeah. Before... we run out of hot water..."

Sherlock smiled. "I... don't know if this is... I..." he growled softly. "Thank you." His face turned a brighter red than it had been from the heat of the shower, and he glanced down at the glass separating them from the rest of the room.

"You're welcome." John wasn't entirely sure what he was being thanked for, but he knew he didn't want to make it any more awkward for Sherlock than it already was.

Sherlock nodded, then turned and fiddles with the shower knobs until the water stopped. John shivered slightly, pulling the door open slowly.

He grabbed a towel and handed it to Sherlock, then reached back for another one. They stepped out of the shower and Sherlock stepped into their bedroom, letting in a gush of cold air.

"Buggering..." John grit his teeth and stepped over to close the door again, still shivering. He grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, looking at the condensation on the mirror as he did so.

When he was finished, he readied himself, and stepped out. The air was still freezing, and he darted over to his small dresser, pulling out socks and pants first. He dried off, looking over to the window, where Sherlock was sitting in his dressing gown and gazing out over the lawn, turning his cell phone over and over in his hands.

"I don't want to call him."

John pulled his pants on, reaching for the socks as he sat down on the bed. "I know."

"He's going to tell me I'm transferring."

"Probably."

Sherlock looked at him. "I'm not ready, John. I'm not ready to leave..."

John grabbed his pajamas, hopping into the trousers awkwardly as he moved towards Sherlock. "Not calling him... it's not going to make this go away." John pulled on his shirt and sat down next to Sherlock, placing a hand on Sherlock's knee.

"No, I suppose it won't." Sherlock purses his lips. "Alright." He turns away from the window, pushing several buttons. John waits.

"Hello, Mycroft." Sherlock stands up, pacing. "Yes. He's fine. No. No, I will not.  _Mycroft_. What did you want?"

Sherlock whirls quickly, eyes wide as he stares at John, looking lost. "No." He's shaking his head. "No, Mycroft... it's too soon, I... I want more time..."

John closes his eyes, listening to Sherlock's side of the conversation.

"Mycroft... No, you... you can't, I... Mycroft... brother, please..." John winces; Sherlock sounds absolutely broken, and now John's imagining him packing his things tonight, leaving tomorrow...

"Fine." Sherlock's voice has gone stiff and angry again. John swallows the lump in his throat - which he was fairly certain was his stomach - and opens his eyes as he hears the beep of Sherlock hanging up.

He watches Sherlock for several moments before asking. "When?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "Four days. I... I leave on Monday."

John let out a breath. "That's... better than I expected, actually."

Sherlock nodded. "It still feels... it's not enough time..."

John stood up and walked over, taking Sherlock's hands in his. "Then we'll make the best of what we have. And we'll have visits, and we can text, or call. And this will all feel like a dream before we even know it. We're talking a matter of weeks, Sherlock. Not years."

And John pulls him closer and holds him.

No matter what he said, weeks sounds awfully long to him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, downhill slope - at this point, there are 6 - that's right, **6** \- chapters left. And since we're so close to the end, I wanted to take this time to say that, to all of you still reading, thank you. You guys are amazing, and I love you all. You're the best readers in the world, and I could not ask for better people to share my stories with. DFTBA!
> 
>  
> 
> **IF you have any inclinations, you can find me on Twitter ([@RAliceKindle](https://twitter.com/#!/RAliceKindle)) or Tumblr ([ricechexbishopofmelancholy](http://ricechexbishopofmelancholy.tumblr.com/) -OR- [imminentanddaringescape](http://imminentanddaringescape.tumblr.com/)). Feel free to drop by, say hello. I love to, "meet," my readers!**


	43. Sherlock

The first thing Sherlock was aware of as he woke up was the feeling of John's nose where it rubbed little circles against his neck, right where his neck met his collarbone. He lay on his back and inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of John there, right there in his arms, so close and so real. He blinked his eyes lazily, finally focusing on John's smile.

It was a good smile.

"Morning."

"Morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock shifted slightly, stretching his head away from John to expose his neck even more. "You need not stop on my account, you know."

He both felt and heard John's chuckle, just before he felt John's lips barely touch his neck. He made a soft noise somewhere in his throat. "Or... that works too..."

John laughed again, soft and quiet, right there against his skin, and he turned his head back then, capturing John's mouth in a tender kiss.

"So what's our plan for the day?"

"Well..." Sherlock rolled onto his side completely now, stretching more of himself right up against John. "It's Saturday..."

"True."

"So we could go out... have lunch..." Sherlock's mouth found the spot of John's chest, just above the collar of his t-shirt. John sucked in a breath.

"I take it..." John's voice was a bit more gravelly than Sherlock was used to in the mornings - he smiled. "You have other ideas?"

"Mmm." Sherlock let his tongue flick out quickly, and was rewarded by a whimper from John.

"Do tell..." John's hands were threading through his hair now, fingers tugging slightly and massaging bits of his scalp here and there and Sherlock pressed in even closer, not wanting there to be any space between them now.

"We could stay. Right here."

John snorted. "Yes, that wouldn't be suspicious at all."

"Not in the least."

"And what would we do, while we were... right... here." John's right hand was stroking along Sherlock's spine now, sending lovely little shivers throughout Sherlock's entire body.

"I'd play for you."

John was quiet a moment, and Sherlock chanced a glance up. John's face looked... amazed.

"You'd... really?"

"I've played for you before."

"Well... yes, but... I didn't think you were... I mean, you were practicing, it wasn't..."

Sherlock pushed up, just a bit, to press his lips against John's. When he pulled back, John's mouth was hanging open and his eyes were closed.

"Right, or... I could just shut-up, and... you could play..."

Sherlock chuckled. "You should have breakfast."

"We."

"So glad you agree."

"What?" John opened his eyes, frowning. Sherlock stared at him.

"I said you should have breakfast. You agreed."

"What? No, I said  _we_ , as in,  _we_  should have breakfast. Both of us."

Sherlock opened his mouth, closing it again rather quickly. "Ah. Of course." A faint blush spread over his cheeks.

"Why? What-"

"Not important. Shall we?" Sherlock pushed up onto all fours, arching his back up like a cat. John rolled back a bit, watching him, and Sherlock blushed even brighter. John's eyes on him would never cease to thrill him. He was sure of it.

Once they were dressed, they went to breakfast. Sherlock grabbed a banana, which had John snorting next to him and trying to keep quiet. Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed out a rather indignant sigh. He grabbed a few pieces of toast as well, and a cup of coffee. He found their usual table and waited for John to catch up with their papers.

He opened up the paper John had brought him, glancing through the headlines. Boring, boring, boring. Nothing of any real interest at all. Why must the world be so painfully dull so often?

He was just folding his paper back up when he heard John take in a sharp breath. He looked up to see John's eyes widen as they met his.

"What?"

John pursed his lips but handed over his paper. Sherlock frowned before he realized what he was looking at. He closed his eyes and handed it back to John.

"Ah."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock."

"I know it looks-"

"Broken arm? At least... three broken ribs?" John was looking at him in horror. "They kept most of that out of the papers..."

Sherlock looked down at his plate. He was distinctly not hungry now, despite having not yet touched his banana. He shoved the plate away and steepled his hands in front of his face, watching John.

"The original reports said there were signs of abuse-"

"Sherlock, this... this is  _torture_ , not abuse."

John was looking back the photos.

"Mycroft was... supposed to take care of that."

"I'm surprised there wasn't some kind of rule in place, or a security detail-"

"There was." Sherlock flashed a thin-lipped smile. "But he knew just how to-"

"Wait, he? As in..." John's already pale face blanched further. "You mean... he, as in, he who did this to you?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't have any concrete evidence to support the theory, of course, but working knowledge of him and his... methods, leads me to believe that he was behind the photos, yes."

John's jaw tightened as he swallowed. "Isn't there anything you can do about this?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "I understand that you are slightly in awe of myself but I would like to assure you that I cannot go back in time and keep this from happening. I'm not... what's that infernal program you insist on watching?"

"It's  _Doctor Who_  and you know that. You're also changing the subject."

Sherlock sighed. "Aside from trying to get the pictures pulled from further publication, what is there that I could do?"

John looked bewildered at the question. "File a lawsuit, for one?"

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. "No, John."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"It's..." Sherlock closed his eyes. He hated clichés. "...complicated."

"How?"

"Because if I do that, then a lot more photos and a lot more accusations will come up."

John gaped. "Are you being  _blackmailed_ , Sherlock?"

Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face. "No. Yes. Maybe." He growled. "I don't know, and I hate that I don't know."

"Alright." He felt John's hand on his arm. It squeezed once and fell back. He lowered his hands and watched John. "So... what, exactly, are... I just...  _Christ_ , this is..."

"Complicated." Sherlock spread his hands, like a magician saying  _voilà._

"I'm seeing that."

"Mycroft will... handle this." Sherlock fought to get the words out. Much as he might hate his brother's intrusions and meddling in his life, there were rare times it proved most beneficial. "He knew about the photos for some time. He's probably been working to get them and simply couldn't.

"Now that's a scary thought."

"What is?" Sherlock looked back at John, nearly distracted from the conversation.

"Well... your brother, he's... he's not some lowly government lackey, is he?" John gave him a soft smile. Sherlock felt his heart ache at the sight of it. "If he couldn't get the photos, with all his... connections..." John waved a hand as he trailed off.

Sherlock looked down. John had a very good point. If Mycroft hadn't been able to get these...

_Jim, you've stepped up your game, haven't you?_

Sherlock took in a deep, calming breath through his nose. "Alright." John looked up at him. "You've seen the pictures. You know how bad it was. You've got questions."

John sat back, arms crossing over his chest. "Just one, really."

"Oh?"

John nodded once. "Are you likely to get that way again?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "Interesting." He furrowed his brow, concentrating, deducing the most likely outcomes. "It's always a possibility. We're never considered cured, after all, only... rehabilitated."

John tilted his head, conceding the point.

"And I think, if left to my own devices, I might find the pull of that seven percent solution a bit too strong to resist."

"And if not left to your own devices?"

Sherlock smirked. "Then I shall consider myself lucky to have someone dedicated to my safety and health,  _Doctor_."

John grinned, looking down. Sherlock stood up, grabbing the banana and finally peeling it.

"So." He took a bite, chewing and swallowing hastily. "Shall I play for you, John?"

John looked back up, beaming. "Absolutely."


	44. John

John steps outside and takes a long, slow breath. He sees Harry standing by their usual table, and he forces a smile.

"Hey, you."

"Hey yourself." She leans in and hugs him tightly. "You sounded... well, you just..."

"Yeah, uh..." John pulled back and looked at her. "Listen. I want you to meet Sherlock."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Fairly certain he knows who I am, John."

John suppressed a grin. "Yeah, he probably remembers that."

"Alright, spill. What's really going on?"

John sinks into a seat, and after a slight hesitation, Harry follows him. He runs his fingers through his hair. "Sherlock's..."  _Leaving? Important?_  "You should meet him. For me."

Harry stared at him. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"You're in love."

"No-"

"Oh yes you are, I've seen it before, and trust me, I see it now."

"Harry-"

"What is wrong with you?"

John let his mouth fall open. "Wrong with  _me?_  What's wrong with  _you_?"

Harry glared. "Nothing's wrong with me."

"Then why are you acting like I've just asked you to go... run over puppies, or something?"

Harry licked her lips, rubbing them together. Stalling. "He was horrible to you."

"And you punched him for it."

"Considering doing so again, to be honest."

John looked positively horrified. "Don't you dare."

Harry looked away and said nothing.

"Harry, I mean it."

"I heard you."

John groaned. "If you so much as raise your hand-"

"I'm not going to punch him again, John." Harry rolled her eyes at him. "Honestly."

"Harriet Jane."

"John Hamish. See, I can do it too."

John sighed and looked his sister in the eyes. "Harry."

She frowned, but nodded. "Fine. But you promise me - if he treats you poorly again-"

"I'll punch him myself, happy?"

"Yes."

John shook his head but grinned at her. "Alright. Fine. Come on. He's going to meet us over by that bench."

They started walking across the lawn towards the gardens.

"Why is this suddenly so important to you, John?"

John took a deep breath. "It's..." he winced at using Sherlock's own phrasing now. "...complicated."

"What's complicated about shagging?"

"Shhh!" John glared at her. "Do you think you could keep your voice down?"

She grinned. "So I was right about the shagging."

"Yes, alright!" John's teeth were clenched as he dragged his sister further from the house. "You're insufferable."

"Only because I love you so dearly."

John sighed. "Listen." Harry stared at him. His tone must have changed, because she was no longer smiling and laughing at him. "I need... I need you to be nice to him. You can hate him for the rest of your life, I don't care, just... pretend to like him?"

Harry reached out, one hand cupped against John's cheek. "He really  _is_  important to you."

John nodded.

"What else, John?" John's jaw tightened, and Harry looked almost... sad. "Please, John, talk to me, tell me. We've... we've gotten so much closer lately, we're better friends than we've ever been before." She stepped closer, looking like she was going to cry. "Please don't shut me out now?"

John closed his eyes, nodding. "Later. I promise." He opened them again and gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Deal?"

Harry glanced to the side, just over his shoulder, nodding. "Deal." She took a breath, dropping her hand and smiling softly. "Hello."

John turned, grinning as he saw Sherlock stop a few feet away from them, hands behind his back. He wondered what song he was plucking out right now. "Bach?" He raised a questioning eyebrow.

Sherlock frowned, then broke into a giant smile. "Tchaikovsky, actually." His attention turned back to Harry. "Ms. Watson."

Harry looked down at the ground before stepping forward and slowly extending her hand. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stared at her hand for a split second before he took it, looking a bit shocked. "Sherlock, please."

"Harry." She smiled up at him. "So John tells me you're... important to him."

Sherlock licked his lips, the corners twitching up slightly. "I can assure you, he is far more important to me than I am to him."

John looked away, his face warming. He could feel the tips of his ears begin to burn.

"I just want you to know, Sherlock." John turned his head back to them. This was not a good tone. This was Harry's business tone. "If you hurt him again, they'll never find your body."

John covered his face in his hands. "Harry, shut-up."

"Acceptable terms, Harry. Should you ever punch me again - or attempt to inflict any sort of bodily harm on me - my brother will most likely forge my name and signature on any documents needed and press charges against you. You might never see daylight again."

"Jesus  _Christ_ , Sherlock." John dared to peek through his fingers.

Sherlock and Harry were staring at each other, neither moving. Finally, Harry grinned. "Vague threats are nobody's friend, are they, Sherlock?"

"Indeed, I've never felt they benefited anyone, Harry."

And then they both burst out laughing.

John dropped his hands, frowning at them both. "What... I... you two are going to kill me, you know. Send me to an early grave." He was breathing a bit harder than he should have been, but finally he smiled with them.

"Just making sure Sherlock knows where we stand, John." Harry reached out and pulls him close, patting his arm.

"You're a horrible person, Harriet."

"And you love me, Johnny." John sighed, but nodded. Harry looked back to Sherlock. "So tell me, Sherlock. What's it like, being a musician?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "I'm not sure precisely how to answer that. I've always been a musician. It would be like asking you what it's like being a lesbian."

Harry giggled. "Touché. Alright then. What's it like to get up in front of a crowd and play?"

Sherlock nodded. "Much better question. It's... exhilarating. I've never played sports but I would suspect it's along the same lines." The three of them began walking along the lawn, John's arm linked with Harry's, Sherlock on her other side. John relaxed. This was nice. It was easy. He wished they'd done it sooner.

"At least you know the crowd in your concert halls isn't there for blood."

Sherlock gave Harry a sly grin. "You'd be surprised." Harry laughed again, and Sherlock continued. "The crowd in the hall wants to hear beautiful music. But the real problem is, a great percentage of them are rather well-to-do, and for them, a scandal in the orchestra is just as exciting as a brawl on a football field to the working class."

"Bet they loved this whole thing with you, then." Harry stopped. "Oh, I'm sorry, that was-"

Sherlock waved her apology off. "No no, they probably think this is the best thing that happened."

"Why is that?" John frowned, trying to imagine why anyone would want such brilliance to languish under the horrors of what Sherlock had done, had endured.

Sherlock shrugged. "Because now, all of them that heard me play before can say that. They saw me play before my downward spiral, how exciting, wonder if he'll be any good when he gets out, will he dare show his face again..." Sherlock swallowed. "The list goes on. They don't want the happy ending, the curtains closing on a kiss. They want the drama, the tragedy."

John watched as Sherlock looked out, towards the forest and the nature trails. "They want to see us suffer for our art. Because our art is their amusement."

John stiffened. He wanted to wipe away every ounce of pain he'd heard in Sherlock's voice. It sounded so... desolate.

"So why do you do it?" Harry was looking at Sherlock like he was a lost, broken child.

Sherlock looked back at them both. "Because I am good at it. And because every time I play, and succeed, I deprive them of their tragedy."

"They still get to hear your music, though." Harry was persistent. "So they win either way."

Sherlock nodded. "The House often does, I've heard."

John snorted. It was just like Sherlock to be oblivious to things like planets and stars and what went 'round what, yet still know things about gambling. A lovely enigma, he was.

"So..." Harry looked slightly uncertain about her next question, but she pressed on. "Will you return to it, then?"

Sherlock stared at her before his gaze slid to John. "Yes, of course I will." He looked back at Harry. "I've even been working on a new piece. I'm hopeful that by the time I'm back to rehearsals, I'll have it finished and ready for debut."

"Oh." Harry's reply was breathy. "I look forward to hearing it."

Sherlock's eyes caught John's again, and John nodded. "It's worth waiting for, Harry."

He hoped Sherlock caught his true meaning.


	45. Sherlock

When Sherlock woke up Monday morning, he was curled tightly around John's body, as though he might absorb him entirely if he just put his mind to it. Their legs were tangled up, his arms were wrapped around John's chest, and his face was plastered to John's shoulder.

He spared a thought for how endearing it would have looked for anyone else seeing them. For himself, however, it was rather uncomfortable, and he couldn't imagine John was enjoying it much.

"You know how I can tell the moment you wake up?"

Sherlock blinked a few times and shifted slightly, looking up at John. "Hmm?"

John chuckled, voice still thick and sleepy. "You tense up. It's like suddenly your brain turned back on, and you weren't quite ready for it." Sherlock felt John's lips brush his forehead. "Morning, Sherlock."

"Good morning, John."

"You can... probably let go now..."

Sherlock slowly unwound his arms and legs from John, feeling every muscle and joint protesting loudly. "Oh,  _god_..."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." John winced as he moved to sit up. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. Bad dreams?"

"Bad reality to wake up to."

John looked back at him, rubbing at his eyes. "What?"

Sherlock yawned. "It's Monday."

John's expression clouded. "Oh, right." He gave Sherlock a small, sad smile. "But it'll only be for a while, remember. We'll visit."

"So you keep saying."

"Sherlock..."

"I hate him sometimes, John."

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "We all hate our siblings sometimes." Sherlock closed his eyes until he felt John's hand pull away.

John stretched up until he was standing, and Sherlock watched, appreciating the way John's left arm turned slightly outward as he reached towards the ceiling, and the way he leaned slightly to the right, hips shifting a bit as he did so.

"At this precise moment in time, I think I hate him more than I normally do for taking away my chance to see this every morning."

John chuckled, glancing back at Sherlock. "You just say these things to get me out of my pants, don't you?"

Sherlock gave him an innocent look. "John, your accusation wounds me."

"Terribly sorry, then."

"As if I needed to say  _anything_ to get you out of your pants."

There was promptly a pillow being smacked into the side of Sherlock's head and knocking him clear off the bed. He could hear John laughing loudly as he straightened up, his glare doing nothing but making John laugh harder.

"You are insufferable. Why am I going to miss you, again?"

"Because you..." John paused, licking his lips. Sherlock's face blanked as waited for John to finish. John blushed. "Well, you find me interesting." John scratched at the back of his head. "And I put up with you, besides." He winked.

Sherlock looked away. "True." His eyes found his clothes, laid out and ready. Everything else was packed, his laptop tucked away, his violin case locked. It felt so final, waking up to this sight.

"Come on, Sherlock." John's voice was soft. "Delaying it won't help."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I know."

They dressed slowly, neither one saying a word. Sherlock thought that it almost felt like they were in mourning, and perhaps they were, just a bit. It would be weeks at  _best_ before they were in the same house for more than a few hours one day a week. Sherlock gave himself a little shake, and finished buttoning up his shirt. John kept telling him not to dwell on that, kept saying he should just look forward to their visits.

It was, as these things ever are, easier said than done.

Breakfast was dull, and boring, and John said very little as he read the paper, while Sherlock said even less. It was almost as though now they had no words to spare one another; now, when they should have been speaking and pouring their hearts out to each other.

After breakfast they walked back to their room, and Sherlock grabbed his bags. John picked up one of them before Sherlock could get to it, glaring defiantly when Sherlock tried to take it from him.

"If you're trying to act stoic, or act like you don't care if I see you off, I will punch you, do you understand me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had smirked. "I believe I do."

"Good." John had then marched out the door and down the hall without waiting. Sherlock chuckled and hastened to follow.

Sherlock brought his bags to the front door, checking his watch. "We seem to be a bit early."

"Yeah." John's determined attitude was gone already - replaced with a melancholy that Sherlock wished he could remove with a wave of his hand, just  _poof_ , and gone.

"I'm sure that we could..." Sherlock looked back at the doors far behind them, the ones leading out to the back lawn. John followed his gaze.

"Fancy a quick walk 'round the garden, then?" John smiled at him.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think that would be splendid."

He shoved his luggage off to the side of the entrance, checking the locks. John lead the way outside, where they saw Molly and Cara.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Molly veered her course to intercept them. "I thought I might have missed you!" She gave him a hug, and he looked at John, concerned and startled, before tentatively putting his arms around Molly in return. John grinned at him.

"Um... no, I... I don't leave for another...uh..." Sherlock floundered as he tried to figure out just how long the hug should be, and if John would be unhappy with him if he pulled away now. Thankfully, Molly straightened then, dropping her arms. Sherlock did the same, stepping back slightly, hands going behind his back.

"Sorry, that was..." Molly blushed, smiling. "Sorry. You probably want to... and John, so... I'll just..." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll see you." She darted back to Cara, giggling.

Sherlock blinked after her, looking perplexed. John snorted.

"You could have helped me there, John."

"She wanted to hug you, Sherlock, hardly anything you needed help with."

Sherlock started moving towards the garden again, and John followed immediately. They walked mostly in silence, apart form the occasional murmured word about things being fine and seeing each other soon. It felt like a horrible broken record, the same reassurances over and over.

Finally, they were back at the front door, watching as a car turned onto the drive.

"Looks like..."

Sherlock looked over at John, who stopped talking.

"Yes."

"I miss you already, Sherlock." John reached out and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. Sherlock was stunned at the outright display of affection, but he squeezed John's hand and smiled as best he could.

"I'll text you when I arrive."

"Good."

The car stopped in front of them, and Sherlock went to pull out of John's grasp. John's fingers tightened. He turned back, nose crinkled. "John, what-"

He was silenced as John pulled him forward, and kissed him. He stood there, mouth pressed against John's lips, staring wide-eyed for several seconds. Then he let his eyelids flutter shut, and gave himself over to the kiss, arms encircling John's shoulders and pressing him closer.

He didn't care at all that everyone in Clouds seemed to have chosen that moment to walk into the lobby. He didn't care that someone was whistling at them, or that there were catcalls being made. He didn't even care when his brother opened the door beside them.

"Oh!"

Sherlock pulled back slowly, his eyes opening and looking directly into John's. "Good to see your timing has not improved, Mycroft."

He glanced over to see his brother had the decency to have turned away slightly, though Sherlock could still clearly see the bright flush of his face.

"Indeed, Sherlock. I am sorry to have caught you in such a... position."

John blushed, stepping away slowly. He looked to the other side, across the lobby, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock turned to see everyone who had witnessed their display quickly retreating into other parts of the building.

"Wish I could say it was good to see you again, Mycroft." John turned back and held out his hand. Mycroft turned and smiled, reaching out to shake John's hand.

"Indeed, John. But, soon enough we'll have you out of here as well." Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "I'll just be a moment, if you'd like to bring your bags over so that the gentlemen can put them into the car?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he glanced between the two of them. "And perhaps say one more... goodbye."

Mycroft then turned and walked briskly towards the main office. Sherlock chuckled, moving to grab his luggage.

He and John took it outside, where two orderlies were waiting. The bags were taken from them immediately, stowed away in the boot of the luxury car, and Sherlock turned to John.

"I..."

John looked up at him.

"I think you should know..." Sherlock reached out and ran his fingertips along John's hairline. "I..." Sherlock pauses, catches himself,  _no, not yet, not ready for that yet_. "I appreciate... everything you've... done."

John cocks his head, studying Sherlock for a moment, before smiling and nodding. "You're welcome. And... I appreciate you."

Sherlock blushed, then leaned in for a final kiss. He heard the door open behind him. His brother's footfalls were deafening.

He pulled away, breathing hard and fast. "John..."

"Go." John gave him a little shove towards the car, and Sherlock stumbled slightly. He felt a warm pressure on his right bicep and turned to see Mycroft there, his vapid smile aimed at John.

"He'll be in good hands, John, I can assure you."

John nodded, pursing his lips as he watched Sherlock be led to the car. Mycroft got in, and Sherlock stood there for a moment before he felt Mycroft's umbrella on his knee.

"This can go two ways, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was quiet, calm, and brooked no argument. Sherlock swallowed, then sank into the backseat. The door closed, and he watched as John stood there, hands shoved into his pockets and a forced smile on his face, watching the car slowly pull away.

Sherlock watched until he couldn't keep John in view, and then he turned back to face the front, knees drawn up and palms shoved into his eyes. Mycroft's hand came down on his shoulder, gentle and almost comforting. He started shaking.

"I know this is hard for you, Sherlock." Sherlock said nothing, not trusting himself at all. Mycroft continued. "Remember that this will, in fact, make things between you two stronger."

They were both quiet for several moments before Mycroft said more. "This will help you on a personal level, as well." Mycroft's hand traced small circles on Sherlock's upper back, right between his shoulder blades now.

Finally Sherlock found his voice. "The pictures. John. He saw them."

"Yes, I was afraid he might." Mycroft sounded remorseful. It was odd enough that it made Sherlock look up, scrubbing at his eyes as he did so.

"You... you really tried, didn't you? To keep them out."

Mycroft nodded. "Not to worry though, Sherlock." His expression was sympathetic. "By the time you've returned to the spotlight, this will be but a minor fall, instead of a career grinding halt."

Sherlock stared at the back of the seat in front of him, swallowing. "You can't promise that, Mycroft."

Mycroft chuckled. "My dear boy, of course I can."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

For once, he actually believed his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO... 3 more chapters. One more week. Can you even believe it? I can't.
> 
> For those wondering, YES, there will be more after, "The Minor Fall." Next up is, "The Major Lift." And after that is, "The Baffled King."
> 
> And I've finished everything for, "The Minor Fall," apart from editing and such. It's all written, now I just need to make sure I've spelled things right (though I am human, so it sometimes happens that I don't notice because my brain knows what's supposed to be there, so it just goes ahead and lets me believe everything's fine), see if it all makes sense, etc. GODS I hope it makes sense.
> 
> I'm excited to bring this to you, and I hope that you have enjoyed the ride as much as I have. So for now, I bid you adieu, so that I might go write some of, "The Major Lift." I figure it doesn't help to dawdle. ;)
> 
> DFTBA, guys. You rock and you roll.


	46. John

"You alright, John?"

John looked over at Molly, smiling automatically. He felt like he was doing that a lot today. He scooted over on the bench and gestured for her to sit, which she did.

"Yes, sorry, I'm just..."

"You miss him."

John nodded. "Stupid, really. I mean, I'll likely be in Whitecross in a few weeks myself. But I can't... God, I sound ridiculous, I bet."

"You love him."

John stared straight ahead. He didn't move, didn't twitch or breath or so much as blink, even with his eyes behind the shaded lenses of his sunglasses. He sat there motionless for nearly thirty seconds before turning to look at Molly.

"Can I... can I tell you something? Something that really, truly terrifies me?"

Molly licked her lips and nodded.

John smiled. "I think... I think I may be  _in_ love with him."

"But why would-"

"Not just... not just in love with him." John's voice was quiet. "I think he may actually be... I dunno how to even explain it. Soulmates, maybe?" John turned to face her. "Being near him... I've never felt so comfortable, so happy, so content. And at the same time, it feels dangerous and intoxicating and deadly. Like electric current running all through me, just the slightest shift could change things from safe to harmful."

Molly looked at him for a moment. "Are you... I mean... can you handle all of that?"

John chuckled. "God help me, I really don't know. But I know I can't walk away."

"Why not?"

John looked at the ground. "Because when he tried it, I wanted to die. I wanted to fall asleep and just... not wake up." John shook his head. "Which is absurd, I mean... just listen to me!"

Molly bit her lips at watched him. "Would you... I mean... " She giggled nervously. "Would you have ever done... you know..."

John looked at her for a moment before he understood. "Oh. OH! No, no, I tried that once and it... no, that, suicide, that's... that's never the answer."

"What if you were going to die anyway?"

John watched Molly, staring at her intently. "Molly. Are you thinking about attempting suicide?"

She gave him a strange smile. "What? No, no of course not. Silly, that's just just silly, why would I..." She blushed and looked away. "I just meant..." She looked up, head tilting side to side as she gathered her thoughts. "Why did you?" She looked at him, nodding at his shoulder. "I mean... You don't have to tell me, I just..."

John smiled ruefully and nodded. "I thought there wasn't much left for me." He looked back out over the grounds. "My career was over. No one would want the surgeon who killed Connie Prince. I'd been discharged from the army, and now I wouldn't even be able to be a doctor. No girlfriend, hardly any friends, and family who seemed so ashamed of me I just..."

He took a deep breath. He hadn't really talked about all of this with someone other than his therapists. In fact, he really hadn't even talked to Sherlock about all of this, not with this much feeling. But somehow, he had a feeling that Sherlock knew, knew it all with the level of intensity that John felt it.

Sherlock didn't need to hear things. He observed, and he knew.

"I tried once, too." John looked back at Molly in surprise to see her biting her lip. "I just... I needed to get out."

"Out of what?"

She gave him a sad smile. "Everything? Out of my job, out of my flat, out of my life." She sighed. "There was... a guy." She laughed softly. "There's always a guy, isn't there? Or a girl, or... well... he wasn't very nice. And I knew if I left, he'd..." She looked at her lap, hands fidgeting nervously. "I didn't have anyone else at the time. Nowhere to go, nowhere safe, at least. And when you want to change but you can't - forces outside of your control are keeping you stuck in the same place, the same life..." She looked back up at John. "Sometimes you just know you'd be better off if you... well, you just know. You'd be better off and it wouldn't hurt anymore."

John scooted a bit closer and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. "Yeah." He felt her lean her head against his shoulder, curling in towards him. "I know."

They sat there for several minutes in silence, taking comfort in each other.

"I'm going to miss you, John."

John rubbed his cheek gently across the top of her head. "I'll miss you, too. But I bet Sherlock and I... we'll be able to come visit, and we could take you to lunch on a Saturday, you and Cara even. The four of us, out for some fun, we could forget everything for a little while."

"It's only ever for a little while, isn't it?"

John head Molly sniffle a bit, and he closed his eyes. "Yeah. Life's funny that way."

"Wish we were laughing at it, then."

John took a deep breath. "We will be, one day." He gives her another quick squeeze around her shoulders. "One day we're gonna look back, and none of this will seem real, even. We'll look back and wonder how we ever got here, but we'll be happy we did, because we met some amazing people, made some wonderful friends, and we're going to be glad for that."

Molly nodded against his shoulder. "Alright. Yeah, I...I can see that."

"And Sherlock and I will get a flatshare in London. We'll have you 'round for Sunday dinners."

Molly giggled.

"And we'll get George and Jeremy, and we can all play cards. You should bring Cara, too."

"John?" They looked up to see Dr. Donovan standing nearby, smiling brightly at them. "Might I borrow you for a moment?"

John nodded. "Is... everything alright?"

Dr. Donovan's smile increased somehow. "Of course. Just need to look over some paperwork with you for a moment."

John shot an apologetic glance back at Molly, who grinned and waved him off. "I'll see you at dinner, yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah, course."

He turned and followed Dr. Donovan back to the house, through the hallways and into her small office. She didn't close the door, so whatever it was, it couldn't have been terribly secret.

"So... paperwork?" John took a seat in front of her desk.

"You sound surprised." She sat down, grabbing a slim folder and handing it over to him. "I thought you were aware of the transfer order to send you to Whitecross Halfway."

"Oh, yes, I... I just didn't think that was happening now."

"It isn't."

He looked up from the folder in his hand, expression wary. "So..."

"The request to transfer was made on your behalf. We have to have you authorize it. It takes some time to get that through the... necessary channels."

John nodded slowly, looking back into the folder. "So I just need to sign this, and then I'm set."

"Essentially."

"Alright..." John looked back up. "Then tell me why I feel like there's something you're not saying."

Dr. Donovan smiled again. It was decidedly unhappy this time. "I just find it... interesting. That Sherlock Holmes transfers out this morning, and as he does so we suddenly have a transfer request for you as well."

John frowned. "And what exactly are you implying, Dr.?"

She shook her head. "Absolutely nothing. I'm only commenting on it. And I would like to ask you to take a moment, and look at it from my perspective."

John would have loved nothing less than the idea of putting himself in that position, but he settled back, one hand coming up to hold his chin. "Alright. Enlighten me."

Dr. Donovan quirked one eyebrow. "There are two men who come into your rehabilitation center. They are... antisocial, though only one of them is outright rude to the staff and other patients. These two men spend all of their time together, to the point that they've fostered almost no other relationships with anyone. They watch each other the way lovers would-"

"I think you're going a bit too far, Dr. Donovan."

"Am I? Are you offended?"

"Perhaps."

"Why? I never said who these two men were. I commented on their behavior." John licked his lips, and Dr. Donovan sighed. She looked defeated, and a little sad. "Do you know why I became a doctor?"

He shrugged. "To help people?"

She nodded. "Exactly. I thought about becoming a police officer once. Thought maybe that would be better, I could help people there too. But in the end, I chose medicine. And do you know what bothers me the most?"

John shook his head.

"Feeling like I could have done  _more_  for someone. Like I  _should_  have done more for someone. It's... hard."

John looked down. He knew that feeling all too well. "Yeah."

"And when... when I see someone who I think I could have helped, could really have made a difference for, leave before I think I've been able to do that... it's not a good feeling."

"I get that." He looked back up. "I do, really, I do."

"I feel like I've failed you, John."

"How?"

Dr. Donovan gave him a sad look. "Bit of advice?" He gestured for her to continue. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He's dangerous."

John's jaw tightened. "I'll take a pen, please." He watched as Dr. Donovan stared at him for a moment before picking up a pen and handing it over. He signed the appropriate lines hurriedly, handing back the folder. "Thank you. Please let me know if there's anything else you need me to sign regarding this matter."

And then he stood, turned in a rather militaristic fashion, and walked out of the office.


	47. Sherlock

The first day hadn't been so bad. He'd arrived and been informed by one Mrs. Emma Hudson that he was here to prove that he was going to be able to make the transition back into normal life, and that he would be expected to do his fair share of the work around the house. He'd smiled and asked about her hip, and about her now deceased husband. She'd swatted his arm, smiled, and pulled him in for a hug.

He'd decided rather quickly that Mrs. Hudson was interesting, and he liked her.

He'd texted John, met his new roommate, and spent far too much time being shown the grounds, signing forms he didn't much care about, and feeling very, very out of sorts. He'd finally been released, where he'd gone straight to his room, curled up in his bed and fallen asleep, phone still clutched in his hands.

It was the day after that, however, when Sherlock woke up in a room he did not recognize, with a roommate he did not recognize, that things started to feel very, very off.

He'd startled awake, glancing around like a caged animal, only to see a rather tall, rather large man standing near the foot of his bed. He'd quickly rolled off the mattress, springing back in a crouch, defensive and ready to run if he had to. Fighting wasn't outside the realm of possibility, but this man had a good six inches over Sherlock, and at least another fifty pounds...

"Oh god, I... I didn't mean to scare you, I'm so sorry, I..."

Sherlock took a deep breath. It was only his roommate - Jason, he recalled, a former heroin addict who genuinely seemed to be getting his life back on track, if the drastically faded track marks were any indication.

"You're American."

Jason had scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly, the way John would at times, and Sherlock had to close his eyes.

"Yeah, it... it's a long story, really. But, uh..."

"It's fine."

"Oh... um, OK, that's good, I think..."

Sherlock straightened, composing himself as best he could. He gave Jason a quick look-over before arching one brow. "Something you're looking for there?"

Jason grinned, reaching out and picking one of the books off a small shelf. "Yeah." He flashed the book at Sherlock. "Almost finished it. Just three more chapters."

Sherlock looked away.  _Of course_  Jason was after a book, not... not himself, not his things. "Yes, of course, I..."

Jason chuckled softly. "It's fine." He walked back to his bed, plopping down on it and picking at a bookmark. "Don't imagine a guy like you has to look up at someone very often." Jason's eyes darted up, watching him over the top edge of his book. "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Sherlock nodded, then went to his small dresser, grabbing clean clothes and slipping into the bathroom. He washed his face, staring at himself. Even his reflection looked wrong, it seemed. The shower behind him was wrong, the toilet was wrong, the walls and the sink and everything was so  _wrong_. Whitecross was wrong.

He closed his eyes and stripped out of his pajamas, starting a shower and stepping in quickly.

At least the water felt good.

He scrubbed at his hair, remembering the feeling of John's fingers, John's hands, the way it had felt to let him do this one, menial task.

He scrubbed at his skin, wishing he could simply scrub away the anxiety, the desperate need to be elsewhere. He rinsed, turned off the water. He stood in the steam and waited, wishing that the door would open and suddenly John would be there, smiling, asking if he was alright.

He toweled off quickly, dressing in a pair of rarely worn jeans and a plain teal shirt. If he was in the wrong place, he might as well look wrong too.

He stepped out to see Jason still on his own bed, engrossed in his book. Sherlock tried not to look disappointed, and was fairly certain he was failing at it. At least Jason wasn't paying him any mind.

He pulled on socks and his shoes, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket.

"I'll... see you later, I suppose."

Jason looked up, smiling and nodding. "Yeah. Enjoy breakfast."

Sherlock nodded, quickly stepping out of the room.

On his way downstairs, his phone beeped. He pulled it out eagerly, swiping a thumb across the screen to unlock it.

[ _I feel like I got run over at some point last night. Strange, not having you here with me. How's Whitecross? -JW_ ]

Sherlock grinned, typing out a quick response. [ _Boring. Come amuse m_ e _. -SH_ ]

The reply came faster than he'd expected. John was getting better at texting. [ _Soon enough, I hope. Do you have a roommate? -JW_ ]

[ _He's American. And tall. It's torturous. Come save me. -SH_ ]

[ _Well if those are the only complaints you have, you're probably not nearly as bad off as you want to think you are, Sherlock. Tell me if you meet anyone interesting. Though not more interesting than me, I hope. -JW_ ]

[ _There is no one more interesting than you, John. Come save me. -SH_ ]

[ _You're barking mad, you know that? -JW_ ]

Sherlock could almost hear John laughing at him. He sighed, pocketing his phone again as he walked into the kitchen.

There were a multitude of other... Patients? People? Addicts? Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to call them, and he didn't much care, but there were an awful lot of them milling about, chatting and giggling and joking with one another. They looked to be making... pancakes, or waffles, if the batter was evidence enough. He glanced from one to another, feeling rather overwhelmed.

"Oh, hello!" Sherlock turned to see a man smiling at him. He was tall - maybe an inch or two taller than Sherlock - with curly, strawberry-blond hair, bright green-blue eyes, and a smile so white Sherlock felt he should be squinting at it. A well-groomed mustache and goatee that leaned heavily to the strawberry side of his coloring framed his mouth. He held out a hand, and Sherlock regarded it coolly for a moment before taking it.

"Hello."

"You must be Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Indeed. And you are..."

The man blushed, licking his lips. "Victor. Trevor."

Sherlock frowned. "Wait... I've heard that name before, why would I know your name..."

"Well I-"

"No, don't tell me." Sherlock let go of his hand, stepping back. His eyes roved over Victor's body for a moment, finally stopping on his knees. "Tennis player. Formerly top ten - no, top fifteen - in the world. Traumatic injury to your left knee - hyperextended, tore at least two major ligaments, not unheard of but not overly common, usually it would just have bruised, swollen, so this was an injury that was exacerbated by something else, a pre-existing condition perhaps? Old injury, maybe? It happened... at least a year and a half ago, but not more than two years ago. Therapy was hard, it hurt so much you turned to-" Sherlock's eyes moved up to Victor's arms. "-oh, morphine, possibly oxycodone, I see." Sherlock's eyes moved up to Victor's. "Interesting."

Victor stared at him for a moment, mouth hanging slightly open, then he took a deep breath and licked his lips, swallowing. "Wow."

Sherlock smirked.

"How... I mean, most of that wasn't in the press, so... wow, I..." Victor grinned. "That was astonishing." Sherlock's expression blanked immediately, and Victor started to backpedal. "Or... I mean, I... I just thought that... was impressive."

"Thank you."

Victor chuckled. "You don't sound like you're used to hearing that." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Come on, I'll show you what we're doing. If you like, you can help out."

Sherlock nodded, following him deeper into the kitchen.

Victor rambled on about where things were, where things went, what sorts of meals they prepared. "Meals, laundry, cleaning, even some of the shopping and landscaping is all up to us."

"Shopping?"

Victor looked back and nodded. "Yeah. There are three cars here, and once you've been cleared for it, you can go out to do the shopping, sometimes."

"That's rather trusting of the..." Sherlock trailed off. He wasn't sure what to call the people who worked here. They weren't doctors, like back at Clouds.

Victor gave him a half shrug. "We're here to prove to the staff that we're ready to start living on our own again. We can hardly do that if we're being served each meal and confined in one place all day." He started walking again. "Through here's the dining room."

Sherlock stepped into a large room. There was one long table surrounded by many chairs, and several china cabinets along the walls. It was cool and comfortable, and Sherlock let out a long breath.

"So. Ever done any cooking before?" He looked back at Victor, shaking his head. Victor nodded. "Alright. We'll start you on something small then. You can help with dinner, alright? We start at five."

Sherlock frowned but nodded. "I suppose."

"Breakfast will be ready in about half an hour. Until then, feel free to wander around." Victor looked abruptly sheepish. "Well, obviously you don't have to come eat right away." His mouth turned up on one side. "But... I hope you will."

Sherlock licked his lips and watched as Victor walked past him, back into the kitchen. He heard his phone beep again, and he opened the message.

[ _So no one of any interest at all that you can talk to? I hate to think you're going to spend your time holed up in your room, ignoring everyone. Also, Molly says hello. -JW_ ]

Sherlock looked back at the doorway to the kitchen, pocketing his phone. He wasn't sure if he'd call Victor  _interesting_  just yet, but he was certainly friendly, and... not easily intimidated by Sherlock's observations.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. He needed some air. He needed space.

He needed  _John_. He pulled his phone back out and refused to acknowledge that his fingers were a bit shaky.

[ _Tell Molly I said hello also. No one here worth talking to so far. Come save me. -SH_ ]


	48. John

John could not think of a more perfect Saturday.

Sherlock had arrived promptly at eleven, just as the small group was getting ready to depart for their afternoon in the town. They'd had lunch at the little cafe that Mycroft had first cornered John in, talking easily and comfortably. Sherlock said that Whitecross was beautiful and the people were friendly enough. He'd seemed a bit uneasy, but when dealing with people Sherlock was often out of his element. He'd said that though Whitecross was very nice, it was lacking in one department. John had asked what that was, then blushed deeply when Sherlock had stared at him like he was insane, and told him, "You. If it had you there, it would be perfect _._ "

They'd walked around after that, not really shopping or even looking at the stores so much as simply basking in each others' presence after nearly a week separated. Sherlock had reached out for John's hand, and without thinking, John had taken it, not caring about anyone's stares or thoughts or whispers. He was happy, and if the concept was so strange to so many people, that was their problem, not his.

Dinner had been back at Clouds House, where Molly - who had not been feeling well earlier and so had stayed behind - had squealed and run up to hug Sherlock, who had surprised John by hugging her back. They'd sat at their normal dinner table, chatting and laughing, and Sherlock's right hand had rested along the back of John's chair several times, a feeling so natural that John wasn't sure how he'd ever adjust to it not being there tomorrow.

And when dinner was ended, John and Sherlock took their leave of everyone and walked outside, spending their last few moments of the night together out on the grounds.

"Whitecross doesn't have this view."

John looked over at Sherlock, then up at the sky. The stars were so bright here, so much more visible than they were in London. Sometimes, it was hard to believe it was the same sky, the same stars, the same anything.

"I thought you didn't care about the stars, or-"

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."

"At least you're not appreciating it from the roof this time."

Sherlock pulled his coat around him a bit tighter and smirked, and John felt himself smiling, soft and easy and comfortable. It was as unfamiliar still as it was welcome, and it was very welcome indeed.

"So tell me more about it, there. What do you do all day? Have you talked to anyone at all?"

Sherlock tensed for a moment - brief, easily passed over, and John attributed it to the stress of him leaving soon again. "Oh... well, we have... chores, I suppose."

John let out one sharp peal of laughter. "HAH! I'd love to see that, you with an apron on, hoovering and dusting..."

Sherlock made a soft, strangled sort of noise. "Please. I prefer... horticultural pursuits."

John snorted. "You're  _gardening_?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Sometimes. Why?"

John shook his head. "I can just see you out there, in your posh suits, a big floppy hat and those horrid gloves-"

"I don't wear a hat, John, don't be ridiculous-"

"Oh, and those big rubber boots, and maybe even some knee pads-"

"Now you're just being idiotic-"

"A trowel and sheers in your hands, shouting about no one understanding why the flowers have to be arranged just so-"

"I only did that because I wanted to see if the bees would-"

But Sherlock was drowned out then as John doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. Sherlock huffed, standing there with his arms crossed.

"Oh god, Sherlock..." John was practically wheezing now. "That's... the best laugh I've had... in  _weeks_."

"You've had your fun. Time to press on."

John took several large breaths, nodding. "Yes, of course, alright..." He let out a few giggles as they kept walking. "Tell you what, when I get there, you can put me in an apron and watch me hoover, will that make you feel better?"

Sherlock smirked. "I believe it might be a good start."

John grinned, and held out his hand. Sherlock took it without hesitation, and they continued their walk.

Before long, John looked at the rather dark sky and sighed, checking his watch and nodding at Sherlock's inquiring glance. They walked back into the house, where Sherlock said several quick goodbyes to people, and received another hug from Molly, which he accepted with a small smile.

Then the two of them stepped out on the front steps, waiting in silence for several moments before the driver came to pick Sherlock up from his visit.

"I miss you. Really, miss you." John clasped his hands behind his back. "It feels like years until I'm out of here and into Whitecross with you again." Sherlock looked down, a small smile playing at his lips.

"I never truly thought it would be this hard - being away from you."

John smiled at that. "Only a little while longer. And we'll still visit each week, won't we? You haven't changed your mind on that, I hope."

"Of course, John." Sherlock looked over at him. "Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno..." John looked away for a moment. "I keep waiting for... well." He flashed a self depreciating smile at Sherlock. "I know what you asked me, when you found out you were transferring, but... I keep waiting for those words you said before all of that to be true."

"It will never happen." Sherlock turned to John now, facing him completely. "I swear to you, John, what I said-"

"It's fine, Sherlock."

"No. What I said was cruel, and it was a lie. And it will always be a lie, John. The truth... is more intense."

John blushed. "Well I believe you there." He looked out towards the gate at the end of the drive - where a pair of headlights were just turning in. "Looks like that's you." Sherlock let out a shaky breath and nodded. John looked at him closely. "Sherlock? You OK?"

Sherlock looked at him again and John could have sworn that there was a wild desperation about him, like this moment was incredibly important for some reason that John couldn't see. "John..."

"It's  _fine_ , Sherlock, I'll see you next week."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John, I..."

"We'll go to lunch - Harry wants to see you again, something about-"

"John!" Sherlock's hands were feverish as he grabbed John's hands, pulling them close to his chest and closing his eyes. "John, I  _must_ ask you something..."

"Sherlock?" John was nervous. He could count on one hand and still have fingers left over how often he'd seen Sherlock in a state of agitation like this. Oh, Sherlock was moody to be sure, but he was rarely so out of control as he seemed to be now. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I..." Sherlock took a deep breath before looking at John, swallowing audibly. He stepped in closer, until they were pressed lightly against each other. "Marry me, John."

John's eyes were wide. His mouth opened and closed several times before he could finally say anything. "What?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Not exactly the response I was looking for."

John sputtered for a moment. "But... what?  _Why_?"

Sherlock's smile twisted into his normal  _don't-be-daft_  expression. "The fact is, I find I cannot live another moment without knowing that you are mine entirely, and I yours in return. So, John Hamish Watson. Would you marry me?"

Something between a laugh and a cry chokes John before it bursts out, and then he's nodding his head fervently and whispering over and over, "Yes, yes, yes." He reaches up and pulls Sherlock down to kiss him, not caring who sees it or who says anything about it because in this moment, there is nothing in the world but Sherlock; Sherlock's lips, and hair, and arms around John pulling him closer and closer until he could have believed that they really were one person.

It was crazy. They'd known each other months, and yet, here they were. John had never remembered a feeling like this before, not ever. It was insane, it was reckless, and it was probably the most stupid thing he could imagine saying yes to right now.

And it was perfect.

_**Fin Act II** _

(Coming in four weeks: The Major Fall: Composing Hallelujah, Part 2)


	49. Afterword

So, let me start by saying: THANK-YOU.

If you've read this whole thing, you amaze me, and I adore you for it.

The response on this story has been overwhelming to me, and I must say, it's a very humbling experience, to see so many people reading, liking, reviewing. It's... well it's crazy, to me, really, because I'm just some chick who listened to a song and thought, "Oh hey, those would be awesome story titles, too bad I don't have a story for them..."

Because truthfully, I didn't. I heard, "Hallelujah," as performed by Rufus Wainwright one night; just a moment of, "Huh, haven't heard this one in a while, lemme give it a listen..." And then those lyrics came on, and the titles popped into my head, and all I could think was, "But what would I even DO with this?"

Well, apparently, I write a Sherlock AU Trilogy.

So, if you've come this far, and you want more, have no fear! After, "The Minor Fall," comes, "The Major Lift," followed by, "The Baffled King." Both are already started, and I'm super duper excited to bring them to you soon (or at least, "The Major Lift," will be soon)!

And now, because you are all awesome readers, I'm going to give some random and pointless facts about the writing of this story (and this series in general):

1 - In case you didn't know, this whole series is called, "Composing Hallelujah." You'll find out why, precisely, it's called that. Part of it is because that was literally the next line in the song. And part of it is in the stories.

2 - I write out of order. I do this A LOT. See, I don't just have ADHD, I have ADOS (which is Attention Deficit OH SHINY!). One of the only things that saves my bacon on this is the writing program I use, which is WriteWay. It's similar to Scrivener, in that you can write bits and move them around within the document. I can print out a scene, a chapter, an act, or the whole document, depending on what I'm doing. This makes it phenomenally handy for editing, because I can go through and say, "Oh look, I used this already, change that..." Don't get me wrong, I'm still human. I make mistakes. It's normal. But with this, I find I am writing better. And that's a good thing.

3 - Chapter 48 (The proposal scene) was written before I was even halfway finished with the story. It's had minor tweaks and such, but overall the scene is nearly completely unchanged from it's original form.

4 - I also started work on both, "The Major Lift," and, "The Baffled King," before I was halfway through, "The Minor Fall." Because I knew how they would be opening, and there were certain scenes I wanted to incorporate, so I wrote them while they were in my brain.

5 - I wrote the ending of, "The Baffled King," when I was all of 5 or 6 chapters into, "The Minor Fall." So yes, I know exactly how this whole thing is going to end. No, I won't tell you, it would spoil the fun of getting there. ;D

6 - In fact, I know how each story will start and end. The tricky bit is figuring out that stuff in the middle.

7 - There are... 3, maybe 4, short stories that will fit in the universe of, "Composing Hallelujah." I'm hoping to put one of them out between, "The Minor Fall," and, "The Major Lift." It should be a prequel to, "The Minor Fall." Title TBD.

8 - The music of Adam Hurst is one of my favorite go-to playlists for writing this. He does cello music, all instrumental, and it is amazingly emotional and moving. I've bought all his albums from either Amazon MP3 or CD Baby. He's awesome, and if you like instrumentals, give him a listen.

9 - Jason, the heroin addict in Chapter 47, is based on a very good, very close of friend of mine, whom I am sad to say did not survive his battle with drugs, despite rehab. His system was too abused, and a few days after he turned 29, his heart gave out. Words cannot express.

10 - For those of you who are perhaps trying to figure out when exactly, "The Major Lift," should be starting, look for it around August 6th. :D

 

Any questions, hit me up! Send me a PM or find me on Twitter/Tumblr. I promise, I only bite if you ask nicely. ;D

Once again, I thank-you.

You have no idea just how much each and ever review, alert, and fave means to me. You are all amazing, lovely, wonderful people, and you have made my life richer simply by sharing my world.


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